-BP  I),  fo. 


SUNDOWN  SLIM.     lUustrated  in  Color. 
SONGS  OF  THE  OUTLANDS.   Talesofthe 

Hoboes  and  Other  Verse. 
OVERLAND  RED.    A  Tale  of  the  Moonstone 

Canon  Trail.    Illustrated  in  Color. 
STEPHEN    MARCH'S   WAY.     Illustrated. 
LOST   FARM    CAMP.    Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


SUNDOWN  SLIM 


Page  133 


HE  CARRIED  A  GREAT,   SHAGGY  DOG  IN  HIS  ARMS 


SUNDOWN  SLIM 


BY 

HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
ANTON  FISCHER 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

rn#  Cambri&ge 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,   IQIS,   BY  HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  May  79/5 


sun 


DEDICATED  TO 
EVERETT  C.  HARASZTHY 


M618944 


Contents 

ARIZONA .      .  .  ...     xi 

I.  SUNDOWN  IN  ANTELOPE      .      .  .  .      .      S 

II.  THE  JOKE  .      .      .      .      .      .  .  .      .    15 

III.  THIRTY  MILES  TO  THE  CONCHO  .  .      .25 

IV.  PIE;  AND  SEPTEMBER  MORN     .  .  .      .35 
V.  ON  THE  CANON  TRAIL        .      .  .  .       .52 

VI.  THE  BROTHERS       .      .      .      ...      .67 

VII.  FADEAWAY'S  HAND        .      .      .      .      .      .77 

VIII.  AT  "THE  LAST  CHANCE"   .      .      ...    87 

IX.  SUNDOWN'S  FRIEND 100 

X.  THE  STORM .113 

XI.  CHANCE  —  CONQUEROR 122 

XII.  A  GIFT 137 

XIII.  SUNDOWN,  VAQUERO 149 

XIV.  ON  THE  TRAIL  TO  THE  BLUE   .      .      .      .  161 
XV.  THEY  KILLED  THE  Boss! 172 

XVI.  SUNDOWN  ADVENTURES       .      .      .      .      .  180 

XVII.  THE  STRANGER 189 

XVIII.  THE  SHERIFF  —  AND  OTHERS    ....  208 

XIX.  THE  ESCAPE     .       .       .      .      .      .      .       .224 

vii 


Contents 

XX.  THE  WALKING  MAN  .      . .    V     .      .  .  236 

XXI.  ON  THE  MESA     .      .      ....  .251 

XXII.  WAIT!       .      .      ...      .      .      .  .261 

XXIII.  THE  PEACEMAKER .276 

XXIV.  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT    .      .      . .    • .  .  290 
XXV.  VAMOSE,  EH?        ...      .      .      .  .  300 

XXVI.  THE  INVADERS     .      .      .      .      ,      »  .  311 

XXVII.  "JusT  ME  AND  HER"     .      .      .      ,  .  330 

XXVIII.  IMPROVEMENTS     .      .      .      .      .      ,  .  340 

XXIX.  A  MAN*S  COUNTRY  .  353 


Illustrations 

HE    CARRIED    A    GREAT,    SHAGGY    DOG     IN    HIS    ARMS 

(page  133)    .       .       .       .      .      .      Colored  frontispiece 

SHE  WENT   WHITE  AND   LEANED   AGAINST   HIM      .         .      64 

"Goo  A'MIGHTY,  SECH  THINGS  is  WRONG!"       .      .  258 

"YOU!"   SHE   EXCLAIMED.      "You!"  .    328 


Arizona 

ACROSS  the  wide,  sun-swept  mesas  the  steel 
trail  of  the  railroad  runs  east  and  west,  diminish- 
ing at  either  end  to  a  shimmering  blur  of  silver. 
South  of  the  railroad  these  level  immensities,  rich 
in  their  season  with  ripe  bunch-grass  and  grama- 
grass  roll  up  to  the  barrier  of  the  far  blue  hills  of 
spruce  and  pine.  The  red,  ragged  shoulders  of 
buttes  blot  the  sky-line  here  and  there;  wind-worn 
and  grotesque  silhouettes  of  gigantic  fortifica- 
tions, castles  and  villages  wrought  by  some  vol- 
canic Cyclops  who  grew  tired  of  his  labors,  aban- 
doning his  unfinished  task  to  the  weird  ravages 
of  wind  and  weather. 

In  the  southern  hills  the  swart  Apache  hunts 
along  historic  trails  o'er  which  red  cavalcades 
once  swept  to  the  plundering  of  Sonora's  herds. 
His  sires  and  their  flashing  pintos  have  vanished 
to  other  hunting-grounds,  and  he  rides  the 
boundaries  of  his  scant  heritage,  wrapped  in 
sullen  imaginings. 

The  canons  and  the  hills  of  this  broad  land  are 
of  heroic  mould  as  are  its  men.  Sons  of  the  open, 
deep-chested,  tall  and  straight,  they  ride  like 
conquerors  and  walk  —  like  bears.  Slow  to  anger 

xi 


Arizona 

and  quick  to  act,  they  carry  their  strength  and 
health  easily  and  with  a  dignity  which  no  worn 
trappings,  faded  shirt,  or  flop-brimmed  hat  may 
obscure.  Speak  to  one  of  them  and  his  level  gaze 
will  travel  to  your  feet  and  back  again  to  your 
eyes.  He  may  not  know  what  you  are,  but  he 
assuredly  knows  what  you  are  not.  He  will 
answer  you  quietly  and  to  the  point.  If  you  have 
been  fortunate  enough  to  have  ridden  range, 
hunted  or  camped  with  him  or  his  kind,  ask  him, 
as  he  stands  with  thumb  in  belt  and  wide  Stetson 
tilted  back,  the  trail  to  heaven.  He  will  smile 
and  point  toward  the  mesas  and  the  mountains 
of  his  home.  Ask  him  the  trail  to  that  other 
place  with  which  he  so  frequently  garnishes  his 
conversation,  and  he  will  gravely  point  to  the 
mesas  and  the  hills  again.  And  there  you  have 
Arizona. 


SUNDOWN  SLIM 


SUNDOWN  SLIM 

CHAPTER  I 

SUNDOWN   IN    ANTELOPE 

SUNDOWN  SLIM,  who  had  enjoyed  the  un-up- 
holstered  privacy  of  a  box-car  on  his  journey 
west  from  Albuquerque,  awakened  to  realize  that 
his  conveyance  was  no  longer  an  integral  part  of 
the  local  freight  which  had  stopped  at  the  town 
of  Antelope,  and  which  was  now  rumbling  and 
grumbling  across  the  Arizona  mesas.  He  was 
mildly  irritated  by  a  management  that  -gave 
its  passengers  such  negligent  service.  He  com- 
plained to  himself  as  he  rolled  and  corded  his 
blankets.  However,  he  would  disembark  and 
leave  the  car  to  those  base  uses  for  which  cor- 
porate greed,  and  a  shipper  of  baled  hay,  in- 
tended it.  He  was  further  annoyed  to  find  that 
the  door  of  the  car  had  been  locked  since  he  had 
taken  possession.  Hearing  voices,  he  hammered 
on  the  door.  After  an  exchange  of  compliments 
with  an  unseen  rescuer,  the  door  was  pushed 
back  and  he  leaped  to  the  ground.  He  was  a  bit 
surprised  to  find,  not  the  usual  bucolic  agent 
of  a  water-plug  station,  but  a  belted  and  booted 

3 


Sundown  Slim 

rider  of  the  mesas;  a  cowboy  in  all  the  glory  of 
wide  Stetson,  wing  chaps,  and  Mexican  spurs. 

"Thought  you  was  the  agent.  I  could  n't  see 
out,"  apologized  the  tramp. 

The  cowboy  laughed.  "  He  was  scared  to  open 
her  up,  so  I  took  a  chanct,  seein'  as  I  'm  agent  for 
the  purvention  of  crulty  to  Hoboes." 

"Well,  you  got  a  fine  chance  to  make  a  record 
this  evenin',"  said  Sundown,  estimating  with  ex- 
perienced eye  the  possibilities  of  Antelope  and 
its  environs.  "I  et  at  Albuquerque." 

"Ain't  a  bad  town  to  eat  in,"  commented  the 
puncher,  gazing  at  the  sky. 

"I  never  seen  one  that  was,"  the  tramp  offered, 
experimentally . 

The  cowboy  grinned.  "Well,  take  a  look  at 
this  pueblo,  then.  You  can  see  her  all  from  here. 
If  the  station  door  was  open  you  could  see  clean 
through  to  New  Mexico.  They  got  about  as 
much  use  for  a  Bo  in  these  parts  as  they  have  for 
raisin'  posies.  And  this  ain't  no  garden." 

"Well,  I'm  raised.  I  got  me  full  growth,"  said 
Sundown,  straightening  his  elongated  frame,  - 
he  stood  six-feet-four  in  whatever  he  could  get  to 
stand  in,  —  "and  I  raised  meself." 

"Good  thing  you  stopped  when  you  did," 
commented  the  puncher.  "What's  your  line?" 

"Me  line?  Well,  the  Santa  Fe,  jest  now.  Next 
comes  cookin'.  I  been  cook  in  everything  from  a 

4 


Sundown  in  Antelope 

hotel  to  a  gradin'-camp.  I  cooked  for  high-collars 
and  swalley-tails,  and  low-brows  and  jeans  —  till 
it  come  time  to  go.  Incondescent  to  that  I  been 
poet  select  to  the  T.W.U." 

"Temperance?" 

"Not  exactly.  T.W.U.  is  Tie  Walkers'  Union. 
I  lost  me  job  account  of  a  long-hair  buttin'  in  and 
ramblin'  round  the  country  spielin'  high-toned 
stuff  about  'Art  for  her  own  sake'  —  and  such. 
Me  pals  selected  him  animus  for  poet,  seein'  as 
how  I  just  writ  things  nacheral;  no  high-fluted 
stuff  like  him.  Why,  say,  pardner,  I  believe  in 
writin'  from  the  ground  up,  so  folks  can  under- 
stand. Why,  this  country  is  sufferin'  full  of  guys 
tryin'  to  pull  all  the  G  strings  out  of  a  harp  to 
onct  —  when  they  ought  to  be  practicin'  scales 
on  a  mouth-organ.  And  it's  printed  ag'in'  'em  in 
the  magazines,  right  along.  I  read  lots  of  it.  But 
speakin'  of  eats  and  thinkin'  of  eats,  did  you  ever 
listen  to  'Them  Saddest  Words,'  —  er  —  one  of 
me  own  competitions?" 

"Not  while  I  was  awake.  But  come  on  over 
to  'The  Last  Chance'  and  lubricate  your  works. 
I  don't  mind  a  little  po'try  on  a  full  stummick." 

"Well,  I'm  willin',  pardner." 

The  process  of  lubrication  was  brief;  and 
" Have  another?  "  queried  the  tramp.  "I  ain't  all 
broke  —  only  I  ain't  payin'  dividen's,  bein'  hard 
times." 

5 


Sundown  Slim 

"Keep  your  two-bits,"  said  the  puncher. 
"  This  is  on  me.  You  're  goin'  to  furnish  the  chaser. 
Go  to  it  and  cinch  up  them  there  'saddest." 

"Bein'  just  two-bits  this  side  of  bein'  a  social- 
ist, I  guess  I'll  keep  me  change.  I  ain't  a  drink- 
in'  man  —  regular,  but  I  never  was  scared  of 
eatin'." 

Sundown  gazed  about  the  dingy  room.  Like 
most  poets,  he  was  not  averse  to  an  audience,  and 
like  most  poets  he  was  quite  willing  that  such 
audience  should  help  defray  his  incidental  ex- 
penses —  indirectly,  of  course.  Prospects  were 
pretty  thin  just  then.  Two  Mexican  herders 
loafed  at  the  other  end  of  the  bar.  They  ap- 
peared anything  but  susceptible  to  the  blandish- 
ments of  Euterpe.  Sundown  gazed  at  the  ceiling, 
which  was  fly-specked  and  uninspiring. 

"Turn  her  loose!"  said  the  puncher,  winking 
at  the  bartender. 

Sundown  folded  his  long  arms  and  tilted  one 
lean  shoulder  as  though  defying  the  elements  to 
blast  him  where  he  stood :  — 

"  Lives  there  a  gent  who  has  not  heard, 
Before  he  died,  the  saddest  word? 

"  *  What  word  is  that? J  the  maiden  cried; 
'I'd  like  to  hear  it  before  I  died.' 

" '  Then  come  with  me,'  her  father  said, 
As  to  the  stockyards  her  he  led; 

6 


Sundown  in  Antelope 

"  Where  lay  in'  on  the  ground  so  low 
She  seen  a  tired  and  weary  Bo. 

"But  when  he  seen  her  standin'  'round, 
He  riz  up  from  the  cold,  cold  ground. 

"'Is  this  a  hold-up  game?  '  sez  he. 
And  then  her  pa  laughed  wickedly. 

" '  This  ain't  no  hold-up ! '  loud  he  cried, 
As  he  stood  beside  the  fair  maiden's  side. 

"  *  But  this  here  gal  of  mine  ain't  heard 
What  you  Boes  call  the  saddest  word.' 

"  The  Bo,  who  onct  had  been  a  gent, 
Took  off  his  lid  and  low  he  bent. 

"He  saw  the  maiden  was  fed  up  good, 
So  her  father's  wink  he  understood. 

"  *  The  saddest  word, '  the  Bo  he  spoke, 
*  Is  the  dinner-bell,  when  you  are  broke.' " 

And  Sundown  paused,  gazing  ceilingward,  that 
the  moral  might  seep  through. 

"You're  ridin'  right  to  home!"  laughed  the 
cowboy.  :eYou  just  light  down  and  we'll  trail 
over  to  Chola  Charley's  and  prospect  a  tub  of 
frijoles.  The  dinner-bell  when  you  are  broke  is 
plumb  correct.  Got  any  more  of  that  po'try 
broke  to  ride  gentle?" 

"Uhuh.  Say,  how  far  is  it  to  the  next  town?" 

"Comin'orgoin'?" 

7 


Sundown  Slim 

"Goin'." 

"  'Bout  seventy-three  miles,  but  there 's  nothin' 
doin' there.  Worse 'n  this." 

"Looks  like  me  for  a  job,  or  the  next  rattler 
goin'  west.  Any  chanct  for  a  cook  here?" 

"Nope.  All  Mexican  cooks.  But  say,  I  reckon 
you  might  tie  up  over  to  the  Concho.  Hearn  tell 
that  Jack  Corliss  wants  a  cook.  Seems  his  ole 
stand-by  Hi  Wingle's  gone  to  Phoenix  on  law 
business.  Jack's  a  good  boss  to  tie  to.  Worked 
for  him  myself." 

"How  far  to  his  place?"  queried  Sundown. 

"Sixty  miles,  straight  south." 

"Gee  Gosh!  Looks  like  the  towns  was  scared 
of  each  other  in  this  here  country.  Who  'd  you 
say  raises  them  frijoles?" 

The  cowboy  laughed  and  slapped  Sundown  on 
the  back.  "Come  on,  Bud !  You  eat  with  me  this 
trip." 

Western  humor,  accentuated  by  alcohol,  is  apt 
to  broaden  rapidly  in  proportion  to  the  quantity 
of  liquor  consumed.  After  a  given  quantity  has 
been  consumed  —  varying  with  the  individual  — 
Western  humor  broadens  without  regard  to  pro- 
portion of  any  kind. 

The  jovial  puncher,  having  enjoyed  Sundown's 
society  to  the  extent  of  six-bits'  worth  of  Mexi- 
can provender,  suggested  a  return  to  "The  Last 

8 


Sundown  in  Antelope 

Chance,"  where  the  tramp  was  solemnly  intro- 
duced to  a  newly  arrived  coterie  of  thirsty  riders 
of  the  mesas.  Gaunt  and  exceedingly  tall,  he 
loomed  above  the  heads  of  the  group  in  the  bar- 
room "like  a  crane  in  a  frog- waller,"  as  one  cow- 
boy put  it.  "Which  ain't  insinooatin'  that  our 
hind  legs  is  good  to  eat,  either,"  remarked  an- 
other. "He  keeps  right  on  smilin',"  asserted  the 
first  speaker.  "And  takin'  his  smile,"  said  the 
other.  "Wonder  what's  his  game?  He  sure  is 
the  lonesomest-lookin'  cuss  this  side  of  that  dead 
pine  on  Bald  Butte,  that  I  ever  seen."  But  con- 
viviality was  the  order  of  the  evening,  and  the 
punchers  grouped  together  and  told  and  listened 
to  jokes,  old  and  new,  talked  sagebrush  politics, 
and  threw  dice  for  the  privilege  of  paying  rather 
than  winning.  "Says  he's  scoutin'  for  a  job 
cookin',"  remarked  a  young  cowboy  to  the  main 
group  of  riders.  "Heard  him  tell  Johnny." 

Meanwhile,  Sundown,  forgetful  of  everything 
save  the  congeniality  of  the  moment,  was  re- 
counting, to  an  amused  audience  of  three,  his 
experiences  as  assistant  cook  in  an  Eastern  hotel. 
The  rest  of  the  happy  and  irresponsible  punchers 
gravitated  to  the  far  end  of  the  bar  and  proposed 
that  they  "have  a  little  fun  with  the  tall  guy." 
One  of  them  drew  his  gun  and  stepped  quietly 
behind  the  tramp.  About  to  fire  into  the  floor  he 
hesitated,  bolstered  his  gun  and  tiptoed  clumsily 

9 


Sundown  Slim 

back  to  his  companions.  "  Got  a  better  scheme," 
he  whispered. 

Presently  Sundown,  in  the  midst  of  his  recital, 
was  startled  by  a  roar  of  laughter.  He  turned 
quickly.  The  laughter  ceased.  The  cowboy  who 
had  released  him  from  the  box-car  stated  that  he 
must  be  going,  and  amid  protests  and  several 
challenges  to  have  as  many  "one-mores,"  swung 
out  into  the  night  to  ride  thirty  miles  to  his 
ranch.  Then  it  was,  as  has  been  said  elsewhere 
and  oft,  "the  plot  thickened." 

A  rider,  leaning  against  the  bar  and  puffing 
thoughtfully  at  a  cigar  of  elephantine  propor- 
tions, suddenly  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  held 
it  poised,  examined  it  with  the  eye  of  a  connois- 
seur —  of  cattle  —  and  remarked  slowly:  "Now, 
why  did  n't  I  think  of  it?  Wonder  you  fellas 
did  n't  think  of  it.  They  need  a  cook  bad !  Been 
without  a  cook  for  a  year  —  and  everybody 
fussin'  'round  cookin'  for  himself." 

Sundown  caught  the  word  "cook  "  and  turned  to 
face  the  speaker.  "I  was  lookin'  for  a  job,  meself ," 
he  said,  apologetically.  "  Did  you  know  of  one?  " 

"You  was!"  exclaimed  the  cowboy.  "Well, 
now,  that's  right  queer.  I  know  where  a  cook  is 
needed  bad.  But  say,  can  you  honest-tp-Gosh 
cookf" 

"I  cooked  in  everything  from  a  hotel  to  a 
gradin'-camp.  All  I  want  is  a  chanct." 

10 


Sundown  in  Antelope 

The  cowboy  shook  his  head.  "I  don'  know. 
It'll  take  a  pretty  good  man  to  hold  down  this 
job." 

"Where  is  the  job?"  queried  Sundown. 

Several  of  the  men  grinned,  and  Sundown, 
eager  to  be  friendly,  grinned  in  return. 

"Mebby  you  could  hold  it  down,"  continued 
the  cowboy.  "But  say,  do  you  eat  your  own 
cookin'?" 

"Guess  you're  joshin'  me."  And  the  tramp's 
face  expressed  disappointment.  "I  eat  my  own 
cookin'  when  I  can't  get  any  better,"  he  added, 
cheerfully. 

"Well,  it  ain't  no  joke  —  cookin'  for  that 
hotel,"  stated  the  puncher,  gazing  at  the  end  of 
his  cigar  and  shaking  his  head.  "Is  it,  boys?" 

"Sure  ain't,"  they  chorused. 

"A  man's  got  to  shoot  the  good  chuck  to  hold 
the  trade,"  he  continued. 

"Hotel?"  queried  Sundown.  "In  this  here 
town?" 

"Naw!"  exclaimed  the  puncher.  "It's  one  o' 
them  swell  joints  out  in  the  desert.  Kind  o'  what 
folks  East  calls  a  waterin'-place.  Eh,  boys?" 

"That's  her!"  volleyed  the  group. 

"Kind  o'  select-like,"  continued  the  puncher. 

"Sure  is!"  they  chorused. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  job  pays?"  asked 
Sundown. 

11 


Sundown  Slim 

"U-m-m-m,  let's  see.  Don't  know  as  I  ever 
heard.  But  there  '11  be  no  trouble  about  the  pay. 
And  you  '11  have  things  your  own  way,  if  you  can 
deliver  the  goods." 

"That's  right!"  concurred  a  listener. 

Sundown  looked  upon  work  of  any  kind  too 
seriously  to  suspect  that  it  could  be  a  subject  for 
jest.  He  gazed  hopefully  at  their  hard,  keen 
faces.  They  all  seemed  interested,  even  eager 
that  he  should  find  work.  "Well,  if  it's  a  job  I 
can  hold  down,"  he  said,  slowly, "  I  '11  start  for  her 
right  now.  I  ain't  afraid  to  work  when  I  got  to." 

"That's  the  talk,  pardner!  Well,  I'll  tell  you. 
You  take  that  road  at  the  end  of  the  station  and 
follow  her  south  right  plumb  over  the  hill.  Over 
the  hill  you'll  see  a  ranch,  'way  off.  Keep  right 
on  fannin'  it  and  you'll  come  to  a  sign  that  reads 
'American  Hotel.'  That's  her.  Good  water, 
fine  scenery,  quiet-like,  and  just  the  kind  of  a 
place  them  tourists  is  always  lookin'  for.  I 
stopped  there  many  a  time.  So  has  the  rest  of  the 
boys." 

:<You  was  tellin'  me  it  was  select-like  — " 
ventured  Sundown. 

The  men  roared.  Even  Sundown's  informant 
relaxed  and  grinned.  But  he  became  grave  again, 
flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  and  waved  his 
hand.  "  It 's  this  way ,  pardner.  That  there  hotel 
is  run  on  the  American  style;  if  you  got  the  price, 

12 


Sundown  in  Antelope 

you  can  have  anything  in  the  house.  And  tourists 
kind  o'  like  to  see  a  bunch  of  punchers  settin' 
'round  smokin'  and  talkin'  and  tellin'  yarns. 
Why,  they  was  a  lady  onct  - 

"But  she  went  back  East,"  interrupted  a 
listener. 

"That's  the  way  with  them,"  said  the  cowboy. 
"They're  always  stickin'  their  irons  on  some 
other  fella's  stock.  Don't  you  pay  no  'tention  to 
them." 

Sundown  shook  hands  with  his  informant, 
crossed  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  slung  his 
blanket-roll  across  his  back.  "Much  obliged  to 
you  fellas,"  he  said,  his  lean,  timorous  face  beam- 
ing with  gratitude.  "It  makes  a  guy  feel  happy 
when  a  bunch  of  strangers  does  him  a  good  turn. 
You  see  I  ain't  got  the  chanct  to  get  a  job,  like 
you  fellas,  me  bein'  a  Bo.  I  had  a  pal  onct  —  but 
he  crossed  over.  He  was  the  only  one  that  ever 
done  me  a  good  turn  without  my  askin'.  He  was 
a  college  guy.  I  wisht  he  was  here  so  he  could  say 
thanks  to  you  fellas  classy-like.  I  'm  feeling  them 
kind  of  thanks,  but  I  can't  say  'em." 

The  grins  faded  from  some  of  the  faces.  "You 
ain't  goin'  to  fan  it  to-night?"  asked  one. 

"Guess  I  will.  You  see,  I'm  broke,  now.  I'm 
used  to  travelin'  any  old  time,  and  nights  ain't 
bad  —  believe  me.  It's  mighty  hot  daytimes  in 
this  here  country.  How  far  did  you  say?" 

13 


Sundown  Slim 

"Just  over  the  hill  —  then  a  piece  down  the 
trail.  You  can't  miss  it,"  said  the  cowboy  who 
had  spoken  first. 

"Well,  so-long,  gents.  If  I  get  that  job  and 
any  of  you  boys  come  out  to  the  hotel,  I'll  sure 
feed  you  good." 

An  eddy  of  smoke  followed  Sundown  as  he 
passed  through  the  doorway.  A  cowboy  snick- 
ered. The  room  became  silent. 

"Call  the  poor  ramblin'  lightnin'-rod  back," 
suggested  a  kindly  puncher. 

"He'll  come  back  fast  enough,"  asserted  the 
perpetrator  of  the  "joke."  "It's  thirty  dry  and 
dusty  miles  to  the  water-hole  ranch.  When  he 
gets  a  look  at  how  far  it  is  to-morrow  mornin' 
he'll  sure  back  into  the  fence  and  come  flyin'  for 
Antelope  with  reins  draggin'.  Set  'em  up  again, 
Joe." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   JOKE 

OWING  to  his  unaccustomed  potations  Sun- 
down was  perhaps  a  trifle  over-zealous  in  taking 
the  road  at  night.  He  began  to  realize  this  after 
he  had  journeyed  along  the  dim,  starlit  trail  for 
an  hour  or  so  and  found  no  break  in  the  level 
monotony  of  the  mesa.  He  peered  ahead,  hoping 
to  see  the  blur  of  a  hill  against  the  southern  stars. 
The  air  was  cool  and  clear  and  sweet.  He  plodded 
along,  happy  in  the  prospect  of  work.  Although 
he  was  a  physical  coward,  darkness  and  the  soli- 
tudes held  no  enemies  for  him.  He  felt  that  the 
world  belonged  to  him  at  night.  The  moon  was 
his  lantern  and  the  stars  were  his  friends.  Circum- 
stance and  environment  had  wrought  for  him  a 
coat  of  cheerful  effrontery  which  passed  for  hard- 
ihood; a  coat  patched  with  slang  and  gaping  with 
inconsistencies,  which  he  put  on  or  off  at  will. 
Out  on  the  starlit  mesas  he  had  metaphorically 
shed  his  coat.  He  was  at  home.  Here  there  were 
no  men  to  joke  about  his  awkwardness  and  his 
ungainly  height.  A  wanderer  by  nature,  he  looked 
upon  space  as  his  kingdom.  Great  distances  were 
but  the  highways  of  his  heritage,  each  promising 

15 


Sundown  Slim 

new  vistas,  new  adventuring.  His  wayside  fires 
were  his  altars,  their  smoke  the  incense  to  his 
gods.  A  true  adventurer,  albeit  timid,  he  jour- 
neyed not  knowing  why,  but  rather  because  he 
knew  no  reason  for  not  journeying.  Wrapped  in 
his  vague  imaginings  he  swung  along,  peering 
ahead  from  time  to  time  until  at  last  he  saw  upon 
the  far  background  of  the  night  a  darker  some- 
thing shaped  like  a  tiny  mound.  "That's  her!" 
he  exclaimed,  joyously,  and  quickened  his  pace. 
"But  Gee  Gosh!  I  guess  them  fellas  forgot  I  was 
afoot.  That  hill  looks  turruble  far  off.  Mebby 
because  it's  dark."  The  distant  hill  seemed  to 
keep  pace  ahead  of  him,  sliding  away  into  the 
southern  night  as  he  advanced.  Having  that  stub- 
bornness so  frequently  associated  with  timidity, 
he  plodded  on,  determined  to  top  the  hill  before 
morning.  "Them  fellas  as  rides  don't  know  how 
far  things  are,"  he  commented.  "But,  anyhow, 
the  folks  at  that  hotel  will  sure  know  I  want  the 
job,  walkin'  all  night  for  it." 

Gradually  the  outline  of  the  hill  became  bolder. 
Sundown  estimated  that  he  had  been  traveling 
several  hours,  when  the  going  stiffened  to  a  slow 
grade.  Presently  the  grade  became  steep  and 
rocky.  Thus  far  the  road  had  led  straight  south. 
Now  it  swung  to  the  west  and  skirted  the  base  of 
the  hill  in  a  gradual  ascent.  Then  it  swung  back 
again  following  a  fairly  easy  slope  to  the  top.  His 

16 


The  Joke 

optimism  waned  as  he  saw  no  light  ahead.  The 
night  grew  colder.  The  stars  flickered  as  the 
wind  of  the  dawn,  whispering  over  the  grasses, 
touched  his  face.  He  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  turned  to  look  back,  and  then 
started  down  the  slope.  It  was  steep  and  rutted. 
He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  stumbled  and  fell. 
His  blanket-roll  had  pitched  ahead  of  him.  He 
fumbled  about  for  it  and  finally  found  it.  "Them 
as  believes  in  signs  would  say  it  was  about  time 
to  go  to  roost,"  he  remarked,  nursing  his  knee 
that  had  been  cut  on  a  fragment  of  ragged  tufa. 
A  coyote  wailed.  Sundown  started  up.  "Some 
lonesome.  But  she  sure  is  one  grand  old  night! 
Guess  I '11  turn  in." 

He  rolled  in  his  blankets.  Hardly  had  he  ad- 
justed his  length  of  limb  to  the  unevenness  of  the 
ground  when  he  fell  asleep.  He  had  come  twenty- 
five  miles  across  the  midnight  mesas.  Five  miles 
below  him  was  his  destination,  shrouded  by  the 
night,  but  visioned  in  his  dreams  as  a  palatial 
summer  resort,  aglow  with  lights  and  eagerly 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  new  cook. 

The  dawn,  edging  its  slow  way  across  the 
mesas,  struck  palely  on  the  hillside  where  he 
slept.  A  rabbit,  huddled  beneath  a  scrub-cedar, 
hopped  to  the  middle  of  the  road  and  sat  up, 
staring  with  moveless  eyes  at  the  motionless 
hump  of  blanket  near  the  road.  In  a  flash  the 

17 


Sundown  Slim 

wide  mesas  were  tinged  with  gold  as  the  smoul- 
dering red  sun  rose,  to  march  unclouded  to  the 
western  sea. 

Midway  between  the  town  of  Antelope  and  the 
river  Concho  is  the  water-hole.  The  land  imme- 
diately surrounding  the  water-hole  is  enclosed 
with  a  barb-wire  fence.  Within  the  enclosure  is  a 
ranch-house  painted  white,  a  scrub-cedar  corral, 
a  small  stable,  and  a  lean-to  shading  the  water- 
hole  from  the  desert  sun.  The  place  is  altogether 
neat  and  habitable.  It  is  rather  a  surprise  to  the 
chance  wayfarer  to  find  the  ranch  uninhabited. 
As  desolate  as  a  stranded  steamer  on  a  mud  bank, 
it  stands  in  the  center  of  several  hundred  acres  of 
desert,  incapable,  without  irrigation,  of  produc- 
ing anything  more  edible  than  lizards  and  horned 
toads.  Why  a  homesteader  should  have  chosen 
to  locate  there  is  a  mystery.  His  reason  for  aban- 
doning the  place  is  glaringly  obvious.  Though 
failure  be  written  in  every  angle  and  nook  of  the 
homestead,  it  is  the  failure  of  large-hearted  enter- 
prise, of  daring  to  attempt,  of  striving  to  make 
the  desert  bloom,  and  not  the  failure  of  indolence 
or  sloth. 

Western  humor  like  Western  topography  is  apt 
to  be  more  or  less  rugged.  Between  the  high 
gateposts  of  the  yard  enclosure  there  is  a  great, 
twelve-foot  sign  lettered  in  black.  It  reads: 

18 


The  Joke 

"American  Hotel."  A  band  of  happy  cowboys 
appropriated  the  sign  when  on  a  visit  to  Ante- 
lope, pressed  a  Mexican  freighter  to  pack  it 
thirty  miles  across  the  desert,  and  nailed  it  above 
the  gateway  of  the  water-hole  ranch.  It  is  a 
standing  joke  among  the  cattle-  and  sheep-men 
of  the  Concho  Valley. 

Sundown  sat  up  and  gazed  about.  The  rabbit, 
startled  out  of  its  ordinary  resourcefulness,  stif- 
fened. The  delicate  nostrils  ceased  twitching. 
"Good  mornin',  little  fella!  You  been  travelin' 
all  night  too?"  And  Sundown  yawned  and 
stretched.  Down  the  road  sped  a  brown  exclam- 
ation mark  with  a  white  dot  at  its  visible  end. 
"  Guess  he  don't  have  to  travel  nights  to  get  'most 
anywhere,"  laughed  Sundown.  He  kicked  back 
his  blankets  and  rose  stiffly.  The  luxury  of  his 
yawn  was  stifled  as  he  saw  below  him  the  ranch- 
house  with  some  strange  kind  of  a  sign  above  its 
gate.  "If  that's  the  hotel,"  he  said  as  he  corded 
his  blankets,  "she  don't  look  much  bigger  than 
me  own.  But  distances  is  mighty  deceivin'  in  this 
here  open-face  country."  For  a  moment  he  stood 
on  the  hillside,  a  gaunt,  lonely  figure,  gazing  out 
across  the  limitless  mesas.  Then  he  jogged  down 
the  grade,  whistling. 

As  he  drew  near  the  ranch  his  whistling  ceased 
and  his  expression  changed  to  one  of  quizzical 
uncertainty.  "That's  the  sign,  all  right,  — 

19 


Sundown  Slim 

'American  Hotel,' -- but  the  hotel  part  ain't 
livin'  up  to  the  sign.  But  some  hotels  is  like  that; 
mostly  front." 

He  opened  the  ranch-house  gate  and  strode  to 
the  door.  He  knocked  timidly.  Then  he  dropped 
his  blanket-roll  and  stepped  to  a  window. 
Through  the  grimy  glass  he  saw  an  empty,  board- 
walled  room,  a  slant  of  sunlight  across  the  floor, 
and  in  the  sunlight  a  rusted  stove.  He  walked 
back  to  the  gateway  and  stood  gazing  at  the  sign. 
He  peered  round  helplessly.  Then  a  slow  grin  il- 
lumined his  face.  "Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  — 
it's  a  joke.  Reckon  the  proprietor  must  be  out 
huntin'  up  trade.  And  accordin'  to  that  he  won't 
be  back  direct." 

He  wandered  about  the  place  like  a  stray  cat  in 
a  strange  attic,  timorous  and  curious.  Ordinarily 
he  would  have  considered  himself  fortunate.  The 
house  offered  shelter  and  seclusion.  There  was 
clear  cold  water  to  drink  and  a  stove  on  which  to 
cook.  As  he  thought  of  the  stove  the  latitude  and 
longitude  of  the  "joke"  dawned  upon  him  with 
full  significance.  He  drank  at  the  water-hole  and, 
gathering  a  few  sticks,  built  a  fire.  From  his 
blankets  he  took  a  tin  can,  drew  a  wad  of  news- 
paper from  it,  and  made  coffee.  Then  he  cast 
about  for  something  to  eat.  "Now,  if  I  was  a 
cow  —  '  he  began,  when  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered the  rabbit.  "Reckon  he's  got  relations 

20 


The  Joke 

hoppin'  around  in  them  bushes."  He  picked  up  a 
stick  and  started  for  the  gate. 

Not  far  from  the  ranch  he  saw  a  rabbit  crouched 
beneath  a  clump  of  brush.  He  flung  his  stick  and 
missed.  The  rabbit  ran  to  another  bush  and 
stopped.  Encouraged  by  the  little  animal's  non- 
chalance, he  dashed  after  it  with  a  wild  and  star- 
tling whoop.  The  rabbit  circled  the  brush  and 
set  off  at  right  angles  to  his  pursuer's  course. 
Sundown  made  the  turn,  but  it  was  "on  one 
wheel"  so  to  speak.  His  foot  caught  in  a  prairie- 
dog  hole  and  he  dove  headlong  with  an  exclama- 
tion that  sounded  as  much  like  "Whump!"  as 
anything  else.  He  uttered  another  and  less  forced 
exclamation  when  he  discovered  in  the  tangle  of 
brush  that  had  broken  his  fall,  another  rabbit 
that  had  not  survived  his  sudden  visitation.  He 
picked  up  the  limp,  furry  shape.  "Asleep  at  the 
switch,"  he  said.  "He  ain't  much  bigger  than  a 
whisper,  but  he's  breakfast." 

Rabbit,  fried  on  a  stove-lid,  makes  a  pretty 
satisfying  meal  when  eating  ceases  to  be  a  pleas- 
ure and  becomes  a  necessity.  Sundown  wisely 
reserved  a  portion  of  his  kill  for  future  con- 
sumption. 

As  the  morning  grew  warmer,  he  fell  asleep  in 
the  shade  of  the  ranch-house.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon he  wakened,  went  into  the  house  and  made 
coffee.  After  the  coffee  he  came  out,  rolled  a  ciga- 


Sundown  Slim 

rette,  and  sat  smoking  and  gazing  out  across  the 
afternoon  mesas.  "I  feel  it  comin',"  he  said  to 
himself.  "And  it's  a  good  one,  so  I  guess  I'll  put 
her  in  me  book." 

He  rummaged  in  his  blankets  and  unearthed  a 
grimy,  tattered  notebook.  Lubricating  the  blunt 
point  of  a  stubby  pencil  he  set  to  work.  When  he 
had  finished,  the  sun  was  close  to  the  horizon.  He 
sat  back  and  gazed  sideways  at  his  effort.  "I'll 
try  her  on  meself,"  he  said,  drawing  up  his  leg 
and  resting  the  notebook  against  his  lean  knee. 
"Wish  I  could  stand  off  and  listen  to  meself,"  he 
muttered.  "Kind  o'  get  the  defect  better." 

Then  he  read  laboriously:  — 

"Bo,  it's  goin'  to  be  hot  all  right; 

Sun's  a  floodin'  the  eastern  range. 
Mebby  it  was  kind  o'  cold  last  night, 

But  there's  nothin'  like  havin'  a  little  change. 
Money?  No.  Only  jest  room  for  me; 

Mountings  and  valleys  and  plains  and  such. 
Ain't  I  got  eyes  that  was  made  to  see? 

Ain't  I  got  ears?  But  they  don't  hear  much: 
Only  a  kind  of  a  inside  song, 

Like  when  the  grasshopper  quits  his  sad, 
And  says:  *  Rickety-chick!  Why,  there  is  nothin' 

wrong ! ' 
And  after  the  coffee,  things  ain't  so  bad. 

"Huh!  Sounds  all  right  for  a  starter.  Ladies 
and  them  as  came  with  you,  I  will  now  spiel  the 
next  section. 


The  Joke 

"  The  wind  is  makin'  my  bed  for  me, 

Smoothin'  the  grass  where  I  'm  goin'  to  flop, 
When  the  quails  roost  up  in  the  live-oak  tree, 

And  my  legs  feel  like  as  they  want  to  stop. 
Pal  or  no  pal,  it 's  about  the  same, 

For  nobody  knows  how  you  feel  inside. 
Hittin'  the  grit  is  a  lonesome  game,  — 

But  quit  it?  No  matter  how  hard  I  tried. 
But  mebby  I  will  when  that  inside  song 

Stops  a-buzzin'  like  bees  that 's  mad, 
Grumblin'  together:  'There's  nothin'  wrong!' 

And  —  after  the  coffee  things  ain't  so  bad. 

"Bees  ain't  so  darned  happy,  either.  They're 
too  busy.  Guess  it 's  a  good  thing  I  went  back  to 
me  grasshopper  in  the  last  verse.  And  now,  ladies 
and  gents,  this  is  posituvely  the  last  appearance 
of  the  noted  electrocutionist,  Sundown  Slim;  so, 
listen. 

"  Ladies,  I  've  beat  it  from  Los  to  Maine. 

And,  gents,  not  knowin'  jest  what  to  do, 
I  turned  and  slippered  it  back  again, 

Wantin'  to  see,  jest  the  same  as  you. 
Ridin'  rods  and  a-dodgin'  flies; 

Eatin'  at  times  when  me  luck  was  good. 
Spielin'  the  con  to  the  easy  guys, 

But  never  jest  makin'  it  understood, 
Even  to  me,  why  that  inside  song 

Kep'  a-handin'  me  out  the  glad, 
Like  the  grasshopper  singin':  'There's  nothin' 
wrong!' 

And  —  after  the  coffee  things  ain't  so  bad." 

23 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  grinned  with  unalloyed  pleasure.  His 
mythical  audience  seemed  to  await  a  few  words, 
so  he  rose  stiffly,  and  struck  an  attitude  some- 
what akin  to  that  of  Henry  Irving  standing  be- 
side a  milk-can  and  contemplating  the  village 
pump.  "It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  inform  you" 
—  he  hesitated  and  cleared  his  throat  —  "that 
them  there  words  of  mine  was  expired  by  half  a 
rabbit  —  small  —  and  two  cans  of  coffee.  Had 
I  been  fed  up  like  youse"  —  and  he  bowed 
grandly  —  "there's  no  tellin*  what  I  might  'a' 
writ.  Thankin'  you  for  the  box-office  receipts,  I 
am  yours  to  demand,  Sundown  Slim,  of  Outdoors, 
Anywhere,  till  further  notice." 

Then  he  marched  histrionically  to  the  ranch- 
house  and  made  a  fire  in  the  rusted  stove. 


CHAPTER  III 

THIRTY   MILES   TO   THE   CONCHO 

JOHN  CORLISS  rode  up  to  the  water-hole,  dis- 
mounted, and  pushed  through  the  gate.  His  horse 
"Chinook"  watched  him  with  gently  inquisitive 
eyes.  Chinook  was  not  accustomed  to  inatten- 
tion when  he  was  thirsty.  He  had  covered  the 
thirty  miles  from  the  Concho  Ranch  in  five  long, 
dry,  and  dusty  hours.  He  nickered.  "In  a  min- 
ute," said  Corliss.  Then  he  knocked  at  the  ranch- 
house  door.  Riders  of  the  Concho  usually  strode 
jingling  into  the  ranch-house  without  formality. 
Corliss,  however,  had  been  gazing  at  the  lean 
stovepipe  for  hours  before  he  finally  decided  that 
there  was  smoke  rising  from  it.  He  knocked  a 
second  time. 

"She  ain't  locked,"  came  in  a  rusty,  smothered 
voice. 

Corliss  shoved  the  door  open  with  his  knee. 
The  interior  was  heavy  with  smoke.  Near  the 
stove  knelt  Sundown  trying  to  encourage  the 
smoke  to  more  perpendicular  behavior.  He 
coughed.  "She  ain't  good  in  her  intentions,  this 
here  stove.  One  time  she  goes  and  the  next  time 
she  stays  and  takes  a  smoke.  Her  innards  is  out 
of  gear.  Whew!" 

25 


Sundown  Slim 

"The  damper  has  slipped  down,"  said  Corliss. 

"Her  little  ole  chest-pertector  is  kind  o' 
worked  down  toward  her  stummick.  There,  now 
she  feels  better  a'ready." 

"Cooking  chuck?"  queried  Corliss,  glancing 
round  the  bare  room. 

"Rabbit,"  replied  Sundown.  "When  I  hit  this 
here  hotel  I  was  hungry.  I  seen  a  rabbit  —  not 
this  here  one,  but  the  other  one.  This  one  was 
settin'  in  a  bunch  of  brush  on  me  right-of-way.  I 
was  behind  and  runnin'  to  make  up  time.  I  kind 
o'  seen  the  leetle  prairie-dog  give  me  the  red  to 
slow  down,  but  it  was  too  late.  Hit  his  cyclone 
cellar  with  me  right  driver,  and  got  wrecked. 
This  here  leetle  wad  o'  cotton  was  under  me 
steam-chest.  No  other  passengers  hurt,  except 
the  engineer." 

Corliss  laughed.  :<You're  a  railroad  man,  I 
take  it.  Belong  in  this  country?" 

Sundown  rose  from  his  knees  and  backed  away 
from  the  stove.  "Nope.  Don't  belong  anywhere, 
I  guess.  My  address  when  I'm  to  home  is  Sun- 
down Slim,  Outdoors,  Anywhere,  speakin'  gen- 
eral." 

"Come  in  afoot?" 

"Uhuh.  Kind  o' thought  I'd  get  a  job.  Fellas 
at  Antelope  told  me  they  wanted  a  cook  at  this 
hotel.  I  reckon  they  do  —  and  some  boarders 
and  somethin'  to  cook." 

26 


Thirty  Miles  to  the  Concho 

"That's  one  of  their  jokes.  Pretty  stiff  joke, 
sending  you  in  here  afoot." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sore,  mister.  They  stole  me 
nanny,  all  right,  but  I  feel  jest  as  good  here  as 
anywhere." 

Corliss  led  Chinook  to  the  water-hole.  Sun- 
down followed. 

"Ever  think  how  many  kinds  of  water  they 
was?"  queried  Sundown.  "Some  is  jest  water; 
then  they's  some  got  a  taste;  then  some's  jest 
wet,  but  this  here  is  fine !  Felt  like  jumpin'  in  and 
drinkin'  from  the  bottom  up  when  I  lit  here. 
Where  do  you  live?" 

"On  the  Concho,  thirty  miles  south." 

"Any  towns  in  between?" 

Corliss  smiled.  "No,  there  is  n't  a  fence  or  a 
house  from  here  to  the  ranch." 

"Gee  Gosh!  Any  cows  in  this  country?" 

"Yes.  The  Concho  runs  ten  thousand  head  on 
the  range." 

"Had  your  supper?" 

"No.  I  was  late  getting  away  from  the  ranch. 
Expected  to  make  Antelope,  but  I  guess  I'll  bush 
here  to-night." 

"Well,  seein'  you're  the  first  boarder  at  me 
hotel,  I  '11  pass  the  hash."  And  Sundown  stepped 
into  the  house  and  returned  with  the  half  rabbit. 
"I  got  some  coffee,  too.  I  can  cook  to  beat  the 
band  when  I  got  somethin'  to  cook.  Help  your- 

27 


Sundown  Slim 

self,  pardner.   What's  mine  is  anybody's  that's 
hungry.  I  et  the  other  hah0." 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do.  Thanks.  Say,  you  can 
cook?" 

"Next  to  writin'  po'try  it's  me  long  suit." 

"Well,  I'm  no  judge  of  poetry,"  said  Corliss. 
"This  rabbit  tastes  pretty  good." 

"You  ain't  a  cop,  be  you?"  queried  Sun- 
down. 

"No.  Why?" 

"Nothin'.   I  was  jest  wonderin'." 

"You  have  traveled  some,  I  take  it." 

"Me?  Say !  I  'm  the  ramblin'  son  with  the  ner- 
vous feet.  Been  round  the  world  and  back  again 
on  them  same  feet,  and  some  freights.  Had  a  pal 
onct.  He  was  a  college  guy.  Run  on  to  him  on  a 
cattle-boat.  He  writ  po'try  that  was  the  real 
thing!  It's  ketchin'  and  I  guess  I  caught  it  from 
him.  He  was  a  good  little  pal." 

"What  became  of  him?" 

"I  dunno,  pardner.  They  was  a  wreck  —  but 
guess  I'll  get  that  coffee." 

"How  did  you  cross  the  Beaver  Dam?"  in- 
quired Corliss  as  Sundown  reappeared  with  his 
can  of  coffee. 

"So  that's  what  you  call  that  creek  back  there? 
Well,  it  don't  need  no  Beaver  hitched  on  to  it  to 
say  what  I  'd  call  it.  I  come  through  last  night, 
but  I'm  dry  now." 

28 


Thirty  Miles  to  the  Concho 

The  cattle-man  proffered  Sundown  tobacco 
and  papers.  They  smoked  and  gazed  at  the  stars. 
"Said  your  friend  was  a  college  man.  What  was 
his  name?"  queried  Corliss,  turning  to  glance  at 
Sundown. 

"Well,  his  real  name  was  Billy  Corliss,  but  I 
called  him  jest  Bill." 

"Corliss!  When  did  you  lose  track  of  him?" 
'In  that  wreck,  'bout  a  year  ago.  We  was 
ridin'  a  fast  freight  goin'  west.  He  said  he  was 
goin'  home,  but  he  never  said  where  it  was.  Hit  a 
open  switch  —  so  they  said  after  —  and  when 
they  pulled  the  stitches,  and  took  that  plaster 
dingus  off  me  leg,  I  starts  out  huntin'  for  Billy. 
Nobody  knowed  anything  about  him.  Was  n't 
no  signs  in  the  wreck,  —  so  they  said.  You  see  I 
was  in  that  fadeaway  joint  six  weeks." 

"What  did  he  look  like?" 

"Billy?  More  like  a  girl  than  a  man.  Slim-like, 
with  blue  eyes  and  kind  o'  bright,  wavy-like  hair. 
He  never  said  nothin'  about  his  folks.  He  was  a 
awful  quiet  kid." 

John  Corliss  studied  Sundown's  face.  "You 
say  he  was  killed  in  a  wreck?" 

"I  ain't  sure.  But  I  reckon  he  was.  It  was  a 
bad  one.  He  was  ridin'  a  empty,  just  ahead  of 
me.  Then  the  whole  train  buckled  up  and  some- 
thin'  hit  me  on  the  lid.  That's  all  I  remember, 
till  after." 

29 


Sundown  Slim 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?  Go  back  to 
Antelope?" 

"Me?  Guess  I  will.  I  was  lookin'  for  a  job 
cookin',  but  the  pay  ain't  right  here.  What  you 
lookin'  at  me  that  way  for?" 

"Sit  still.  I 'mall  right.  My  brother  Will  left 
home  three  years  ago.  Did  n't  say  a  word  to  any 
one.  He'd  been  to  school  East,  and  he  wrote 
some  things  for  the  magazines  —  poetry.  I  was 
wondering  — " 

"Say,  mister,  what's  your  name?" 

"John  Corliss." 

"Gee  Gosh!  I  knowed  when  I  et  that  rabbit 
this  mornin'  that  some  thin'  was  goin'  to  happen. 
Thought  it  was  po'try,  but  I  was  mistook." 

"So  you  ate  your  half  of  the  rabbit  this  morn- 
ing, eh?" 

"Sure!!—" 

"And  you  gave  me  the  rest.  You  sure  are 
loco." 

"Mebby  I  be.  Anyhow,  I'm  used  to  bein' 
hungry.  They  ain't  so  much  of  me  to  keep  as 
you  —  crossways,  I  mean.  Of  course,  up  and 
down  — " 

"  Well,  I  'm  right  sorry,"  said  Corliss.  "  You  're 
the  queerest  Hobo  I  ever  saw." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  said  Sundown, 
grinning.  "I  ain't  no  common  hand-out  grabber, 
not  me!  I  learnt  things  from  Bill.  He  had  class!" 

30 


Thirty  Miles  to  the  Concho 

"You  sure  Will  never  said  anything  about  the 
Concho,  or  his  brother,  or  Chance?" 
"Chance?  Who 'she?" 
"Wolf-dog  that  belonged  to  Will." 
"Gee  Gosh!  Big,  and  long  legs,  and  kind  of 
long,  rough  hair,  and  deep  in  the  chest  and  — " 
"That's  Chance;  but  how  did  you  know?" 
"  Why,  Billy  writ  a  pome  'bout  him  onct.  Sold 
it  and  we  lived  high  —  for  a  week.   Sure  as  you 
live!  It  was  called  'Chance  of  the  Concher.'  Gee 
Gosh!  I  thought  it  was  jest  one  of  them  poetical 
dogs,  like." 

Corliss,  who  was  not  given  to  sentiment, 
smoked  and  pondered  the  possibility  of  his  broth- 
er's whereabouts.  He  had  written  to  all  the  large 
cities  asking  for  information  from  the  police  as  to 
the  probability  of  their  being  able  to  locate  his 
brother.  The  answers  had  not  been  encouraging. 
At  the  end  of  three  years  he  practically  gave  up 
making  inquiry  and  turned  his  whole  attention 
to  the  management  of  the  Concho.  There  had 
been  trouble  between  the  cattle  and  sheep  inter- 
ests and  time  had  passed  more  swiftly  than  he 
had  realized.  His  meeting  with  Sundown  had 
awakened  the  old  regret  for  his  brother's  uncalled- 
for  disappearance.  Had  he  been  positive  that  his 
brother  had  been  killed  in  the  wreck  he  would 
have  felt  a  kind  of  relief.  As  it  was,  the  uncer- 
tainty as  to  his  whereabouts,  his  welfare,  worried 

31 


Sundown  Slim 

and  perplexed  him,  especially  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Antelope  to  present  to 
the  Forest  Service  a  petition  from  the  cattle-men 
of  the  valley  for  grazing  allotments.  The  sheep 
had  been  destroying  the  grazing  on  the  west  side 
of  the  river.  There  had  been  bickerings  and  fin- 
ally an  open  declaration  of  war  against  David 
Loring,  the  old  sheep-man  of  the  valley.  Corliss 
wished  to  avoid  friction  with  David  Loring. 
Their  ranches  were  opposite  each  other.  And  as 
Corliss  was  known  as  level-headed  and  shrewd, 
it  devolved  upon  him  to  present  in  person  the 
complaint  and  petition  of  his  brother  cattle-men. 
Argument  with  David  Loring,  as  he  had  passed 
the  latter's  homestead  that  morning,  had  delayed 
him  on  his  journey  to  Antelope.  Presently  he  got 
up  and  entered  the  ranch-house.  Sundown  fol- 
lowed and  poked  about  in  the  corners  of  the 
room.  He  found  a  bundle  of  gunny-sacks  and 
spreading  them  on  the  floor,  laid  his  blankets  on 
them. 

Corliss  stepped  out  and  led  Chinook  to  the 
distant  mesa  and  picketed  him  for  the  night.  As 
he  returned,  he  considered  the  advisability  of 
hiring  the  tramp  to  cook  until  his  own  cook  re- 
turned from  Phoenix.  He  entered  the  house, 
kicked  off  his  leather  chaps,  tossed  his  spurs  into 
a  corner,  and  made  a  bed  of  his  saddle-blankets 
and  saddle.  "  I  '11  be  starting  early,"  he  said  as  he 


Thirty  Miles  to  the  Concho 

drew  off  his  boots.   "What  are  you  intending  to 
do  next?" 

"Me?  Well,  I  ain't  got  no  plans.  Beat  it  back 
to  Antelope,  I  guess.  Say,  mister,  do  you  think 
my  pal  was  your  brother?" 

"I  don't  know.  From  your  description  I 
should  say  so.  See  here.  I  don't  know  you,  but  I 
need  a  cook.  The  Concho  is  thirty  miles  in.  I'm 
headed  the  other  way,  but  if  you  are  game  to 
walk  it,  I'll  see  if  I  can  use  you." 

"Me!  You  ain't  givin'  me  another  josh,  be 
you?" 

"Never  a  josh.  You  won't  think  so  when  you 
get  to  punchin'  dough  for  fifteen  hungry  cowboys. 
Want  to  try  it?" 

"Say,  mister,  I'm  just  comin'  to.  A  guy  told 
me  in  Antelope  that  they  was  a  John  Corliss  — 
only  he  said  Jack  —  what  was  needin'  a  cook. 
Just  thunk  of  it,  seein'  as  I  was  thinkin'  of 
Billy  most  ever  since  I  met  you.  Are  you  the 
one?" 

"Guess  I  am,"  said  Corliss,  smiling.  "It's  up 
to  you." 

"Say,  mister,  that  listens  like  home  more'n 
anything  I  heard  since  I  was  a  kid.  I  can  sure 
cook,  but  I  ain't  no  rider." 

"How  long  would  it  take  you  to  foot  it  to  the 
Concho?" 

"Oh,  travelin'  easy,  say  'bout  eight  hours." 

33 


Sundown  Slim 

"  Don't  see  that  you  need  a  horse,  then,  even  if 
there  was  one  handy." 

"Nope.  I  don't  need  no  horse.  All  I  need  is  a 
job." 

"All  right.  You'd  have  to  travel  thirty  miles 
either  way  —  to  get  out  of  here.  I  won't  be  there, 
but  you  can  tell  my  foreman,  Bud  Shoop,  that 
I  sent  you  in." 

"And  I'll  jest  be  tellin'  him  that  'bout  twelve, 
to-morrow.  I  sure  wisht  Billy  was  here.  He'd 
sure  be  glad  to  know  his  ole  pal  was  cookin'  for 
his  brother.  Me  for  the  shavin's.  And  say, 
thanks,  pardner.  Reckon  they  ain't  all  jokers  in 
Arizona." 

"No.  There  are  a  few  that  can't  make  or  take 
one,"  said  Corliss.  "Hope  you'll  make  the  ranch 
all  right." 

"I'm  there!  Next  to  cookin'  and  writin' 
po'try,  walkin'  is  me  long  suit." 


CHAPTER  IV 

PIE;    AND    SEPTEMBER   MORN 

WHEN  a  Westerner,  a  native-born  son  of  the 
outlands,  likes  a  man,  he  likes  him.  That  is  all 
there  is  to  it.  His  horses,  blankets,  money,  pro- 
vender, and  even  his  saddle  are  at  his  friend's 
disposal.  If  the  friend  prove  worthy,  —  and  your 
Westerner  is  shrewd,  —  a  lifelong  friendship  is 
the  result.  If  the  friend  prove  unworthy,  it  is  well 
for  him  to  seek  other  latitudes,  for  the  average 
man  of  the  outlands  has  a  peculiar  and  deep- 
seated  pride  which  is  apt  to  manifest  itself  in 
prompt  and  vigorous  action  when  touched  by 
ridicule  or  ingratitude.  There  are  many  Davids 
and  Jonathans  in  the  sagebrush  country.  David 
may  have  flocks  and  herds,  and  Jonathan  may 
have  naught  but  the  care  of  them.  David  may 
possess  lands  and  water-rights,  and  Jonathan 
nothing  more  than  a  pick,  a  shovel,  a  pan,  and 
an  incurable  itch  for  placering.  A  Westerner  likes 
a  man  for  what  he  is  and  not  because  of  his  voca- 
tion. He  usually  proceeds  cautiously  in  the  mat- 
ter of  friendship,  but  sudden  and  instinctive 
friendships  are  not  infrequent.  It  so  happened 
that  John  Corliss  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  Hobo, 

35 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  Slim.  Knowing  a  great  deal  more  about 
cattle  than  about  psychology,  the  rancher  wasted 
no  time  in  trying  to  analyze  his  feelings.  If  the 
tramp  had  courage  enough  to  walk  another 
thirty  miles  across  the  mesas  to  get  a  job  cooking, 
there  must  be  something  to  him  besides  legs. 
Possibly  the  cattle-man  felt  that  he  was  paying 
a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  brother.  In  any 
event,  he  greeted  Sundown  next  morning  as  the 
latter  came  to  the  water-hole  to  drink.  "You 
can't  lose  your  way,"  he  said,  pointing  across  the 
mesa.  "Just  keep  to  the  road.  The  first  ranch  on 
the  right  is  the  Concho.  Good  luck ! "  And  he  led 
Chinook  through  the  gateway.  In  an  hour  he  had 
topped  the  hill.  He  reined  Chinook  round.  He 
saw  a  tiny  figure  far  to  the  south.  Half  in  joke  he 
waved  his  sombrero.  Sundown,  who  had  glanced 
back  from  time  to  time,  saw  the  salute  and  an- 
swered it  with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  his  lean  arm. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  got  the  whole  works  to 
meself .  That  Concho  guy  is  a  mighty  fine-lookin' 
young  fella,  but  he  don't  look  like  Billy.  Rides 
that  hoss  easy-like  jest  as  if  he  was  settin'  in  a 
rockin'-chair  knittin'  socks.  But  I  reckon  he 
could  flash  up  if  you  stepped  on  his  tail.  I  sure 
ain't  goin'  to." 

It  was  mid-afternoon,  when  Sundown,  gaunt 
and  weary,  arrived  at  the  Concho.  He  was  faint 

36 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

for  lack  of  food  and  water.  The  Mexican  cook,  or 
rather  the  cook's  assistant,  was  the  only  one 
present  when  Sundown  drifted  in,  for  the  Concho 
was,  in  the  parlance  of  the  riders,  "A  man's  ranch 
from  chuck  to  sunup,  and  never  a  skirt  on  the 
clothes-line." 

Not  until  evening  was  Sundown  able  to  make 
his  errand  known,  and  appreciated.  A  group  of 
riders  swung  in  in  a  swirl  of  dust,  dismounted, 
and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  yard  was  empty  of 
horses. 

The  riders  disappeared  in  the  bunk-house  to 
wash  and  make  ready  for  supper.  One  of  the  men, 
who  had  spoken  to  him  in  passing,  reappeared. 

"Lookin'  for  the  boss?"  he  asked. 

"Nope.  I  seen  him.  I'm  lookin'  for  Mr. 
Shoop." 

"All  right,  pardner.  Saw  off  the  mister  and 
size  me  up.  I'm  him." 

"The  boss  said  I  was  to  be  cook,"  said  Sun- 
down, rather  awed  by  the  personality  of  the  bluff 
foreman. 

"Meet  him  at  Antelope?" 

"No.  It  was  the  American  Hotel.  He  said  for 
me  to  tell  you  if  I  walked  in  I  could  get  a  job 
cookin'." 

"All  right.  What  he  says  goes.  Had  anything 
to  eat  recent?" 

"I  et  a  half  a  rabbit  yesterday  mornin'." 

37 


Sundown  Slim 

"Well,  sufferin'  shucks!  You  fan  it  right  in 
here!" 

Later  that  evening,  Sundown  straggled  out  to 
the  corral  and  stood  watching  the  saddle-stock  of 
the  Concho  pull  hay  from  the  long  feed-rack  and 
munch  lazily.  Suddenly  he  jerked  up  his  hand 
and  jumped  round.  The  men,  loafing  in  front 
of  the  bunk-house,  laughed.  Chance,  the  great 
wolf-dog,  was  critically  inspecting  the  tramp's 
legs. 

Sundown  was  a  self-confessed  coward,  physi- 
cally. Above  all  things  he  feared  dogs.  His  recep- 
tion by  the  men,  aside  from  Bud  Shoop's  greet- 
ing, had  been  cool.  Even  the  friendship  of  a  dog 
seemed  acceptable  at  that  moment.  Plodding 
along  the  weary  miles  between  the  water-hole 
and  the  ranch,  he  had,  in  his  way,  decided  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf :  to  ignore  the  insistent  call  of  the 
road  and  settle  down  to  something  worth  while. 
Childishly  egotistical,  he  felt  in  a  vague  way  that 
his  virtuous  intent  was  not  appreciated,  not  rea- 
soning that  the  men  knew  nothing  of  his  wander- 
ings, nor  cared  to  know  anything  other  than  as  to 
his  ability  to  cook.  So  he  timidly  stroked  the  long 
muzzle  of  the  wolf-dog,  and  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Chance  seemed  to  like  it.  In 
fact,  Chance,  having  an  instinct  superior  to  that 
of  his  men  companions  of  the  Concho,  recognized 
in  the  gaunt  and  lonely  figure  a  kindred  spirit;  a 

38 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

being  that  had  the  wander-fever  in  its  veins;  that 
was  forever  searching  for  the  undiscoverable,  the 
something  just  beyond  the  visible  boundaries  of 
day.  The  dog,  part  Russian  wolf-hound  and  part 
Great  Dane,  deep-chested,  swift  and  powerful, 
shook  his  shaggy  coat  and  sneezed.  Sundown 
jumped.  Again  the  men  laughed.  "  You  and  me  9s 
built  about  alike  —  for  speed,"  he  said,  endeavor- 
ing to  convey  his  friendly  intent  through  compli- 
ment. "Did  you  ever  ketch  a  rabbit?" 

Chance  whined.  Possibly  he  understood.  In 
any  event,  he  leaped  playfully  against  Sundown's 
chest  and  stood  with  his  paws  on  the  tramp's 
shoulders.  Sundown  shrunk  back  against  the 
corral  bars.  "Go  to  it,"  he  said,  trying  to  cover 
his  fear  with  a  jest,  "if  you  like  bones." 

From  behind  him  came  a  rush  of  feet.  "  Great 
Scott!"  exclaimed  Shoop.  "Come  'ere,  Chance. 
I  sure  did  n't  know  he  was  loose." 

The  dog  dropped  to  his  feet  and  wagged  his 
tail  inquiringly. 

"Chance  —  there  —  he  don't  cotton  to  stran- 
gers," explained  Shoop,  slipping  his  hand  in  the 
wolf-dog's  collar.  "Did  he  nip  you?" 

"Nope.  But  me  and  him  ain't  strangers,  mis- 
ter. You  see,  I  knowed  the  boss's  brother  Billy, 
what  passed  over  in  a  wreck.  He  used  to  own 
Chance,  so  the  boss  says." 

"  You  knew  Billy!  But  Chance  don't  know 

39 


Sundown  Slim 

that.  I  '11  chain  him  up  till  he  gets  used  to  seein' 
you  'round." 

Shoop  led  the  dog  to  the  stable.  Sundown  felt 
relieved.  The  solicitude  of  the  foreman,  imper- 
sonal as  it  was,  made  him  happier. 

Next  morning  he  was  installed  as  cook.  He  did 
fairly  well,  and  the  men  rode  away  joking  about 
the  new  "dough-puncher." 

Then  it  was  that  Sundown  had  an  inspiration 
—  not  to  write  verse,  but  to  manufacture  pies. 
He  knew  that  the  great  American  appetite  is  keen 
for  pies.  Finding  plenty  of  material,  —  dried 
apples,  dried  prunes,  and  apricots,  —  he  set  to 
work,  having  in  mind  former  experiences  on  the 
various  "east-sides"  of  various  cities.  Deter- 
mined that  his  reputation  should  rest  not  alone 
upon  flavor,  he  borrowed  a  huge  Mexican  spur 
from  his  assistant  and  immersed  it  in  a  pan  of 
boiling  water.  "And  speakin'  of  locality  color," 
he  murmured,  grinning  at  the  possibilities  before 
him,  "  how 's  that,  Johnny?  "  And  he  rolled  out  a 
thin  layer  of  pie-dough  and  taking  the  spur  for  a 
"pattern- wheel,"  he  indented  a  free-hand  sketch 
of  the  Concho  brand  on  the  immaculate  dough. 
Next  he  wheeled  out  a  rather  wobbly  cayuse, 
then  an  equally  wobbly  and  ferocious  cow.  Each 
pie  came  from  the  oven  with  some  symbol  of  the 
range  printed  upon  it,  the  general  effect  being 
enhanced  by  the  upheaval  of  the  piecrust  in  the 

40 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

process  of  baking.  When  the  punchers  rode  in 
that  evening  and  entered  the  messroom,  they 
sniffed  knowingly.  But  not  until  the  psychologi- 
cal moment  did  Sundown  parade  his  pies.  Then 
he  stepped  to  the  kitchen  and,  with  the  lordly 
gesture  of  a  Michael  Angelo  unveiling  a  statue 
for  the  approval  of  Latin  princes,  commanded 
the  assistant  to  "Bring  forth  them  pies."  And 
they  were  "brung." 

Each  astonished  puncher  was  gravely  pre- 
sented with  a  whole  pie  —  bubbling  kine,  dim- 
pled cay  uses,  and  sprawling  spurs.  Silence  —  as 
silence  is  wont  to  do  in  dramatic  moments  — 
reigned  supreme.  Then  it  was  that  the  pur- 
veyor of  spontaneous  Western  exclamations 
missed  his  opportunity,  being  elsewhere  at  the 
time. 

"Whoop!  Let  'er  buck!"  exclaimed  Bud 
Shoop,  swinging  an  imaginary  hat  and  rocking 
from  side  to  side. 

"So-o,  Boss!"  exclaimed  a  puncher  from  the 
Middle  West. 

"Hand-made  and  silver  mounted,"  remarked 
another.  "Hate  to  eat  'em." 

"Trade  you  my  pinto  for  a  steer,"  offered  still 
another. 

"Nothin'  doin'!  That  hoss  of  yours  has  got 
colic  —  bad." 

"  Swap  this  here  goat  for  that  rooster  of  yours," 

41 


Sundown  Slim 

said  "Sinker,"  a  youth  whose  early  education  in 
art  had  been  neglected. 

"Goat?  You  box-head!  That's  a  calf.  Kind 
'a'  mired  down,  but  it's  sure  a  calf.  And  this 
ain't  no  rooster.  This  here's  a  eagle  settin'  on 
his  eggs.  You  need  specs." 

"Noah  has  sure  been  herdin'  'em  in,"  said 
another  puncher. 

Meanwhile,  "Noah"  stood  in  the  messroom 
doorway,  arms  folded  and  face  beaming.  His 
attitude  invited  applause,  and  won  it.  Eventu- 
ally his  reputation  as  a  "pie-artist"  spread  far 
and  wide.  When  it  leaked  out  that  he  had 
wrought  his  masterpieces  with  a  spur,  there  was 
some  murmuring.  Being  assured  by  the  assistant 
that  the  spur  had  been  previously  boiled,  the 
murmuring  changed  to  approval.  "That  new 
cook  was  sure  a  original  cuss!  Stickin'  right  to 
the  range  in  his  picture-work.  Had  them  there 
old  Hopi  picture-writin's  on  the  rocks  beat  a 
mile."  And  the  like. 

Inspired  by  a  sense  of  repletion,  conducive  to 
generosity  and  humor,  the  boys  presented  Sun- 
down with  a  pair  of  large-ro welled  Mexican  spurs, 
silver-mounted  and  altogether  formidable.  Like 
many  an  historic  adventurer,  he  had  won  his  spurs 
by  a  tour-de-force  that  swept  his  compatriots  off 
their  feet;  innuendo  if  you  will  —  but  the  average 
cowboy  is  capable  of  assimilating  much  pie. 

42 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

Although  Sundown  was  offered  the  use  of  a 
bunk  in  the  men's  quarters,  he  chose  to  sleep  in  a 
box-stall  in  the  stable,  explaining  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  sleep  in  all  kinds  of  places,  and 
that  the  unused  box-stall  with  fresh  clean  straw 
and  blankets  would  make  a  very  comfortable 
bedroom.  His  reason  for  declining  a  place  with 
the  men  became  apparent  about  midnight. 

Bud  Shoop  had,  in  a  bluff,  offhand  way,  given 
him  a  flannel  shirt,  overalls,  an  old  flop-brimmed 
Stetson,  and,  much  to  Sundown's  delight,  a  pair 
of  old  riding-boots.  Hitherto,  Sundown  had  been 
too  preoccupied  with  culinary  matters  to  pay 
much  attention  to  his  clothing.  Incidentally  he 
was  spending  not  a  little  time  in  getting  accus- 
tomed to  his  spurs,  which  he  wore  upon  all  occa- 
sions, clinking  and  clanking  about  the  cook-room, 
a  veritable  Don  Quixote  of  the  (kitchen)  range. 

The  arrival  of  Corliss,  three  days  after  Sun- 
down's advent,  had  a  stimulating  effect  on  the 
new  cook.  He  determined  to  make  the  best  ap- 
pearance possible. 

The  myriad  Arizona  stars  burned  with  darting 
radiance,  in  thin,  unwavering  shafts  of  splin- 
tered fire.  The  moon,  coldly  brilliant,  sharp- 
edged  and  flat  like  a  disk  of  silver  paper,  touched 
the  twinkling  aspens  with  a  pallid  glow  and 
stamped  a  distorted  silhouette  of  the  low-roofed 
ranch-buildings  on  the  hard-packed  earth.  In 

43 


Sundown  Slim 

the  corral  the  shadow  of  a  restless  pony  drifted 
back  and  forth.  Chance,  chained  to  a  post  near 
the  bunk-house,  shook  himself  and  sniffed  the 
keen  air,  for  just  at  that  moment  the  stable  door 
had  opened  and  a  ghostly  figure  appeared;  a 
figure  that  shivered  in  the  moonlight.  The  dog 
bristled  and  whined.  "S-s-s-h!"  whispered  Sun- 
down. "It's  me,  ain't  it?" 

With  his  bundle  of  clothes  beneath  his  arm, 
he  picked  a  hesitating  course  across  the  yard  and 
deposited  the  bundle  beside  the  water-trough. 
Chance,  not  altogether  satisfied  with  Sundown's 
assurance,  proclaimed  his  distrust  by  a  long 
nerve-reaching  howl.  Some  one  in  the  bunk- 
house  muttered.  Sundown  squatted  hastily  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trough.  Bud  Shoop  rose  from 
his  bunk  and  crept  to  the  door.  He  saw  nothing 
unusual,  and  was  about  to  return  to  his  bed  when 
an  apparition  rose  slowly  from  behind  the  water- 
trough.  The  foreman  drew  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  doorway  and  watched. 

Sundown's  bath  was  extensive  as  to  territory 
but  brief  as  to  duration.  He  dried  himself  with  a 
gunny-sack  and  slipped  shivering  into  his  new 
raiment.  "That  there  September  Morn  ain't 
got  nothin'  on  me  except  looks,"  he  spluttered. 
"And  she  is  welcome  to  the  looks.  Shirts  and 
pants  for  mine!" 

Then  he  crept  back  to  his  blankets  and  slept 

44 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

the  sleep  of  one  who  has  atoned  for  his  sins  of 
omission  and  suffered  righteously  in  the  ordeal. 

Bud  Shoop  wanted  to  laugh,  but  forgot  to  do 
it.  Instead  he  padded  back  to  his  bunk  and  lay 
awake  pondering.  "Takin'  a  bath  sure  does 
make  a  fella  feel  like  the  fella  he  wants  to  feel 
like — but  in  the  drinkin'-trough,  at  night  .  .  .  ! 
I  reckon  that  there  Hobo  ain't  right  in  his  head." 

Sundown  dreamed  that  he  was  chasing  an 
elusive  rabbit  over  endless  wastes  of  sand  and 
greasewood.  With  him  ran  a  phantom  dog,  a 
lean,  shaggy  shape  that  raced  tirelessly.  When 
Sundown  wanted  to  give  up  the  dream-hunt  and 
rest,  the  dog  would  urge  him  on  with  whimper- 
ings and  short,  explosive  barks  of  impatience. 
Presently  the  dream-dog  ran  ahead  and  disap- 
peared beyond  a  rise.  Sundown  sank  to  the  des- 
ert and  slept.  He  dreamed  within  his  dream  that 
the  dog  was  curled  beside  him.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  stroked  the  dog's  head.  Presently  a 
side  of  the  box-stall  took  outline.  A  ray  of  sun- 
light filtered  in;  sunlight  flecked  with  fine  golden 
dust.  The  straw  rustled  at  his  side  and  he  sat 
up  quickly.  Chance,  stretching  himself  and 
yawning,  showed  his  long,  white  fangs  in  an  elab- 
orated dog-smile.  "Gee  Gosh!"  exclaimed  Sun- 
down, eyeing  the  dog  sideways,  "so  it's  you, 
eh?  You  was  n't  foolin'  me,  then,  when  you  said 
we'd  be  pals?" 

45 


Sundown  Slim 

Chance  settled  down  in  the  straw  again  and 
sighed  contentedly. 

From  the  corral  came  the  sound  of  horses  run- 
ning. The  boys  were  catching  up  their  ponies  for 
the  day's  work.  Chance  pricked  his  ears.  "I 
guess  it's  up  to  me  and  you  to  move  lively,"  said 
Sundown,  stretching  and  groaning.  "We're 
sleepin'  late,  account  of  them  midnight  aboli- 
tions." 

He  rose  and  limped  to  the  doorway.  Chance 
followed  him,  evidently  quite  uninterested  in  the 
activities  outside.  Would  this  queer,  ungainly 
man- thing  saddle  a  horse  and  ride  with  the  others, 
or  would  he  now  depart  on  foot,  taking  the  trail 
to  Antelope?  Chance  knew  quite  as  well  as  did 
the  men  that  something  unusual  was  in  the  air. 
Hi  Wingle,  the  cook,  had  returned  unexpectedly 
that  night.  Chance  had  listened  gravely  while 
his  master  had  told  Bud  Shoop  that  "the  out- 
fit" would  move  over  to  Bald  Knoll  in  the  morn- 
ing. Then  the  dog  had  barked  and  capered 
about,  anticipating  a  break  in  the  monotony  of 
ranch-life. 

Sundown  hurried  to  the  cook-room,  Chance 
at  his  heels.  Hi  Wingle  was  already  installed  in  his 
old  quarters,  but  he  greeted  Sundown  heartily, 
and  set  him  to  work  helping. 

After  breakfast,  Bud  Shoop,  in  heavy  wing 
chaps  and  trailing  his  spurs,  swaggered  up  to  Sun- 

46 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

down.  "How  you  makin'  it  this  mornin'?" 
he  inquired.  There  was  a  note  of  humorous  good- 
fellowship  in  his  voice  that  did  not  escape  Sun- 
down. 

"Doin'  fine  without  crutches,"  replied  Sun- 
down, grinning. 

"Well,  you  go  eat  now,  and  I'll  catch  up  a 
cayuse  for  you.  We're  goin'  to  fan  it  for  Bald 
Knoll  in  about  ten  minutes." 

"Do  I  go,  too?" 

"Sure!  Do  you  think  we  don't  eat  pie  only 
onct  a  year?  You  bet  you  go  —  helpin'  Hi. 
Boss's  orders." 

"Thanks  —  but  I  ain't  no  rider." 

Shoop  glanced  questioningly  at  Sundown's 
legs.  "Mebby  not.  But  if  I  owned  them  legs 
I'd  contract  to  ride  white-lightnin'  bareback. 
I  'd  just  curl  'em  'round  and  grab  holt  of  my  feet 
when  they  showed  up  on  the  other  side.  Them 
ain't  legs;  them's  cinchas." 

"Mebby  they  ain't,"  sighed  Sundown.  "It's 
the  only  pair  I  got,  and  I'm  kind  of  used  to  'em." 

"Did  you  let  Chance  loose?"  queried  the  fore- 
man. 

"Me?  Nix.  But  he  was  sleepin'  in  the  stall 
with  me  this  mornin'." 

"Heard  him  goin'  on  last  night.  Thought 
mebby  a  coyote  or  a  wolf  had  strayed  in  to 
get  a  drink." 

47 


Sundown  Slim 

"Get  a  drink!  Can't  they  get  a  drink  up  in 
them  hills?" 

"Sure!  But  they  kind  of  fancy  the  flavor  of 
the  water-trough.  They  come  in  frequent.  But 
you  better  fan  it  for  chuck.  See  you  later." 

Sundown  hurried  through  breakfast.  He  was 
anxious  to  hear  more  about  the  habits  of  coyotes 
and  wolves.  When  he  again  came  to  the  corral, 
many  of  the  riders  had  departed.  Shoop  stood 
waiting  for  John  Corliss. 

"You  said  them  wolves  and  coyotes — "  be- 
gan Sundown 

"Yes,  ding  'em!"  interrupted  Shoop.  "Looks 
like  they  come  down  last  night.  Somethin'  's 
been  monkeyin'  with  the  water." 

"Did  you  ever  see  one  —  at  night? "  queried 
Sundown,  nervously. 

"  See  'em?  Why,  I  shot  droves  of  'em  right 
from  the  bunk-house  door.  I  never  miss  a  chance. 
Cut  loose  every  time  I  see  one  standin'  with  his 
front  paws  on  the  trough.  Get  'em  every  time." 

"Wisht  I'd  knowed  that." 

"So?" 

"Uhuh.  I'd  'a'  borrowed  a  gun  off  you  and 
set  up  and  watched  for  'em  myself." 

Bud  Shoop  made  a  pretense  of  tightening  a 
cinch  on  Sundown's  pony,  that  he  might  "blush 
unseen,"  as  it  were. 

48 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

Presently  Corliss  appeared  and  motioned  to 
Shoop.  "How's  the  new  cook  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Fine!" 

Sundown  retired  modestly  to  the  off-side  of 
the  pony. 

" Got  a  line  on  him  a'ready,"  said  Shoop. "First 
thing,  Chance,  here,  took  to  him.  Then,  next 
thing,  he  manufactures  a  batch  of  pies  that  ain't 
been  matched  on  the  Concho  since  she  was  a 
ranch.  Then,  next  thing  after  that,  Chance  slips 
his  collar  and  goes  and  bushes  with  the  Bo  — 
sleeps  with  him  till  this  mornin'.  And  you  can 
rope  me  for  a  parson  if  that  walkin'  wish-bone 
did  n't  get  to  ramblin'  in  his  sleep  last  night  and 
come  out  and  take  a  bath  in  the  drinkin9 -trough  I 
He's  got  on  them  clothes  I  give  him,  this  morn- 
in'. Can  you  copper  that?" 

"Bad  dream,  Bud." 

"  You  wait ! "  said  the  grinning  foreman.  "  You 
watch  him.  Don't  pay  no  'tention  to  me." 

Corliss  smiled.  Shoop's  many  and  devious 
methods  of  estimating  character  had  their  humor- 
ous angles.  The  rancher  appreciated  a  joke  quite 
as  much  as  did  any  of  his  employees,  but  usually 
as  a  spectator  and  not  a  participant.  Bud  Shoop 
had  served  him  well  and  faithfully,  tiding  over 
many  a  threatened  quarrel  among  the  men  by  a 
humorous  suggestion  or  a  seemingly  impersonal 
anecdote  anent  disputes  in  general.  So  Corliss 

49 


Sundown  Slim 

waited,  meanwhile  inspecting  the  ponies  in  the 
corral.  He  noticed  a  pinto  with  a  saddle-gall 
and  told  Shoop  to  turn  the  horse  out  on  the 
range. 

"It's  one  of  Fadeaway's  string,"  said  Shoop. 

"I  know  it.   Catch  him  up." 

Shoop,  who  felt  that  his  opportunity  to  con- 
firm his  dream-like  statement  about  Sundown's 
bathing,  was  slipping  away,  suddenly  evolved 
a  plan.  He  knew  that  the  horses  had  all  been 
watered.  "Hey!"  he  called  to  Sundown,  who 
stood  gravely  inspecting  his  own  mount.  "  Come 
over  here  and  make  this  cayuse  drink.  He  won't 
for  me." 

Shoop  roped  the  horse  and  handed  the  rope  to 
Sundown,  who  marched  to  the  water-trough. 
The  pony  sniffed  at  the  water  and  threw  up  his 
head.  "I  reckoned  that  was  it!"  said  Shoop. 

"What?"  queried  Corliss,  meanwhile  watch- 
ing Sundown's  face. 

"Oh,  some  dam'  coyote's  been  paddlin'  in  that 
trough  again.  No  wonder  the  bosses  won't  drink 
this  mornin'.  I  don't  blame  'em." 

Sundown  rolled  a  frightened  eye  and  tried  to 
look  at  everything  but  his  companions.  Corliss 
and  Shoop  exploded  simultaneously.  Slowly  the 
light  of  understanding  dawned,  rose,  and  radi- 
ated in  the  dull  red  of  the  new  cook's  face.  He 
was  hurt  and  a  bit  angry.  The  anticipating  and 

50 


Pie;  and  September  Morn 

performing  of  his  midnight  ablutions  had  cost 
him  a  mighty  struggle,  mentally  and  otherwise. 

"If  you  think  it's  any  early  mornin'  joke  to 
take  a  wash-up  in  that  there  Chinese  coffin  — 
why,  try  her  yourself,  about  midnight."  Then 
he  addressed  Shoop  singly.  "If  I  was  you,  and 
you  got  kind  of  absent-minded  and  done  likewise, 
and  I  seen  you,  do  you  think  I  'd  go  snitch  to  the 
boss?  Nix,  for  it  might  set  him  to  worryin'." 

Shoop  accepted  the  compliment  good-naturedly, 
for  he  knew  he  had  earned  it.  He  swaggered  up 
to  Sundown  and  slapped  him  on  the  back. 
"Cheer  up,  pardner,  and  listen  to  the  good  news. 
I'm  goin'  to  have  that  trough  made  three  foot 
longer  so  it'll  be  more  comfortable." 

"Thanks,  but  never  again  at  night.  Guess  if 
I  had  n't  been  feelin'  all-to-Gosh  happy  at  havin' 
a  home  and  a  job,  I'd  'a'  froze  stiff." 


CHAPTER  V 

ON   THE   CANON   TRAIL 

THE  Loring  homestead,  a  group  of  low-roofed 
adobe  buildings  blending  with  the  abrupt  red 
background  of  the  hill  which  sheltered  it  from 
the  winter  winds,  was  a  settlement  in  itself,  pro- 
viding shelter  and  comfort  for  the  wives  and  chil- 
dren of  the  herders.  Each  home  maintained  a 
small  garden  of  flowers  and  vegetables.  Across 
the  somber  brown  of  the  'dobe  walls  hung  strings 
of  chiles  drying  in  the  sun.  Gay  blossoms,  neatly 
kept  garden  rows,  red  ollas  hanging  in  the  shade 
of  cypress  and  acacia,  the  rose-bordered  plaza 
on  which  fronted  the  house  of  the  patron,  the 
gigantic  windmill  purring  lazily  and  turning  now 
to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  to  meet  the  varying 
breeze,  the  entire  prospect  was  in  its  pastoral  qui- 
etude a  reflection  of  Senora  Loring's  sweet  and 
placid  nature.  Innuendo  might  include  the  wind- 
mill, and  justly  so,  for  the  Senora  in  truth  met 
the  varying  breeze  of  circumstance  and  invaria- 
bly turned  it  to  good  uses,  cooling  the  hot  temper 
of  the  patron  with  a  flow  of  soft  Spanish  utter- 
ances, and  enriching  the  simple  lives  of  the  little 
colony  with  a  charity  as  free  and  unvarying  as 
the  flow  of  the  clear,  cool  water. 

52 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

Far  to  the  east,  where  the  mesas  sloped  gently 
to  the  hills,  grazed  the  sheep,  some  twenty  bands 
of  a  thousand  each,  and  each  band  guarded  and 
cared  for  by  a  herder  and  an  assistant  who  cooked 
and  at  times  journeyed  with  the  lazy  burros  to 
and  from  the  hacienda  for  supplies  and  provis- 
ions. 

David  Loring,  erstwhile  plainsman  and  scout, 
had  drifted  in  the  early  days  from  New  Mexico 
to  Arizona  with  his  small  band  of  sheep,  and  set- 
tled in  the  valley  of  the  Concho.  He  had  been  tol- 
erated by  the  cattle-men,  as  his  flock  was  but  a 
speck  on  the  limitless  mesas.  As  his  holdings 
increased,  the  ranchers  awakened  to  the  fact  that 
he  had  come  to  stay  and  that  some  boundary 
must  be  established  to  protect  their  grazing.  The 
Concho  River  was  chosen  as  the  dividing  line, 
which  would  have  been  well  enough  had  Loring 
been  a  party  to  the  agreement.  But  he  declined 
to  recognize  any  boundary.  The  cattle-men  felt 
that  they  had  given  him  fair  warning  in  nam- 
ing the  Concho  as  the  line  of  demarcation.  He, 
in  turn,  considered  that  his  right  to  graze  his 
sheep  on  any  part  or  all  of  the  free  range  had  not 
been  circumscribed. 

His  neighbor  —  if  cattle-men  and  sheep-men 
may  under  any  circumstances  be  termed  neigh- 
bors —  was  John  Corliss.  The  Corliss  rancho 
was  just  across  the  river  opposite  the  Lering 

53 


Sundown  Slim 

homestead.  After  the  death  of  their  parents  the 
Corliss  boys,  John  and  his  younger  brother  Will, 
had  been  constant  visitors  at  the  sheep-man's 
home,  both  of  them  enjoying  the  vivacious  com- 
panionship of  Eleanor  Loring,  and  each,  in  his 
way,  in  love  with  the  girl.  Eventually  the 
younger  brother  disappeared  without  any  appar- 
ent reason.  Then  it  was  that  John  Corliss's 
visits  to  the  Loring  rancho  became  less  frequent 
and  the  friendliness  which  had  existed  between 
the  rival  ranches  became  a  kind  of  tolerant  ac- 
quaintanceship, as  that  of  neighbors  who  have 
nothing  in  common  save  the  back  fence. 

Fernando,  the  oldest  herder  in  Loring's  em- 
ploy, stood  shading  his  eyes  from  the  glare  of 
noon  as  he  gazed  toward  the  distant  rancho. 
His  son  was  with  the  flock  and  the  old  man  had 
just  risen  from  preparing  the  noon  meal.  "The 
Senorita,"  he  murmured,  and  his  swart  features 
were  lighted  by  a  wrinkled  smile.  He  stepped 
to  his  tent,  whipped  a  gay  bandanna  from  his 
blankets  and  knotted  it  about  his  lean  throat. 
Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  gazing  at  it  speculatively . 
It  was  beyond  reconstruction  as  to  definite 
shape,  so  he  tossed  it  to  the  ground,  ran  his  fin- 
gers through  his  silver-streaked  hair,  and  stepped 
out  to  await  his  Senorita's  arrival. 

The  sunlight  flashed  on  silver  spur  and  bit  as 

54 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

the  black-and-white  pinto  "Challenge"  swept 
across  the  mesa  toward  the  sheep-camp.  Into 
the  camp  he  flung,  fretting  at  the  curb  and  pivot- 
ing. His  rider,  Eleanor  Loring,  about  to  dis- 
mount, spoke  to  him  sharply.  Still  he  contin- 
ued to  pivot  uneasily.  "Morning,  Fernando! 
Challenge  is  fussy  this  morning.  I'll  be  right 
back!"  And  she  disciplined  Challenge  with  bit 
and  spur,  wheeling  him  and  loping  him  away 
from  the  camp.  Down  the  trail  she  checked  him 
and  brought  him  around  on  his  hind  feet.  Back 
they  came,  with  a  rush.  Fernando's  deep-set 
eyes  glowed  with  admiration  as  the  girl  "set- 
up" the  pinto  and  swung  to  the  ground  with  a 
laugh.  "Made  him  do  it  all  over  again,  si.  He 
is  the  big  baby,  but  he  pretends  he  is  bronco. 
Don't  you,  Challenge?"  She  dropped  the  reins 
and  rubbed  his  nose.  The  pony  laid  back  his 
ears  in  simulated  anger  and  nipped  at  her  sleeve. 
"Straighten  your  ears  up,  pronto!"  she  com- 
manded, nevertheless  laughing.  Then  a  strain 
of  her  father's  blood  was  apparent  as  she  seized 
the  reins  and  stood  back  from  the  horse.  "Be- 
cause you're  bluffing  this  morning,  I'm  going 
to  make  you  do  your  latest  trick.  Down!"  she 
commanded.  The  pony  extended  his  foreleg 
and  begged  to  shake  hands.  "No!  Down!" 
With  a  grunt  the  horse  dropped  to  his  knees, 
rolled  to  his  side,  but  still  kept  his  head  raised. 

55 


Sundown  Slim 

"Clear  down!  Dead,  Challenge!"  The  horse 
lay  with  extended  neck,  but  switched  his  tail 
significantly.  "Don't  you  dare  roll!"  she  said, 
as  he  gave  evidence  of  getting  up.  Then,  at 
her  gesture,  he  heaved  himself  to  his  feet  and 
shook  himself  till  the  stirrups  clattered.  The 
girl  dropped  the  reins  and  turned  to  the  old 
herder.  "I  taught  him  that,  Fernando.  I 
did  n't  make  him  do  it  just  to  show  off.  He 
understands  now,  and  he'll  behave." 

Old  Fernando  grinned.  "He  always  have  the 
good  manner,  being  always  with  the  Senorita," 
he  said  bowing. 

"Thanks,  Fernando.  You  always  say  some- 
thing nice.  But  I  can't  let  you  get  ahead  of  me. 
What  a  pretty  scarf.  It's  just  right.  Do  you 
wear  it  always,  Fernando?" 

"It  is  —  I  know  —  what  the  vaquero  of  the 
Concho  call  the  '  josh '  that  you  give  me,  but  I  am 
yet  not  too  old  to  like  it.  It  is  muy  pleasure,  si! 
to  be  noticed  when  one  is  old  —  by  the  Senorita 
of  especial." 

The  girl's  dark  eyes  flashed  and  she  laughed 
happily.  "It's  lots  of  fun,  is  n't  it  —  to  'josh'? 
But  I  came  to  see  if  you  needed  anything." 

"Nothing  while  still  the  Senorita  is  at  thees 
camp." 

"Well,  you'd  better  think  up  something,  for 
I  'm  going  in  a  minute.  Have  to  make  the  rounds. 

56 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

Dad  is  down  with  the  rheumatism  and  as  cross 
as  a  grizzly.  I  was  glad  to  get  away.  And  then, 
there's  Madre." 

Fernando  smiled  and  nodded.  He  was  not 
unfamiliar  with  the  patron's  temper  when  rheu- 
matism obliged  him  to  be  inactive.  "He  say 
nothing,  the  patron  —  that  we  cross  the  sheep 
to  the  west  of  the  river,  Senorita?" 

"No.  Not  lately.  I  don't  know  why  he  should 
want  to.  The  feed  is  good  here." 

"I  have  this  morning  talk  with  the  vaquero 
Corlees.  He  tell  me  that  the  South  Fork  is  dry 
up." 

"John  Corliss  is  not  usually  interested  in  our 
sheep,"  said  the  girl. 

"No.  Of  the  sheep  he  knows  nothing."  And 
the  old  herder  smiled.  "But  many  times  he  look 
out  there,"  he  added,  pointing  toward  the  Loring 
rancho. 

"He  was  afraid  father  would  catch  him  talk- 
ing to  one  of  the  herders,"  laughed  the  girl. 

"The  vaquero  Corlees  he  afraid  of  not  even 
the  bear,  I  think,  Senorita." 

Eleanor  Loring  laughed.  "Don't  you  let 
father  catch  you  calling  him  a  bear!"  she  cau- 
tioned, provoking  the  old  herder  to  immediate 
apology  and  a  picturesque  explanation  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  referred  not  to  the  patron,  but 
the  grizzly. 

57 


Sundown  Slim 

"All  right,  Fernando.  I'll  not  forget  to  tell 
the  patron  that  you  called  him  a  bear." 

The  old  herder  grinned  and  waved  farewell 
as  she  mounted  and  rode  down  the  trail.  Prac- 
tical in  everyday  affairs,  he  untied  his  bandanna 
and  neatly  folded  and  replaced  it  among  his 
effects.  As  he  came  out  of  the  tent  he  picked  up 
his  hat.  He  was  no  longer  the  cavalier,  but  a 
stoop-shouldered,  shriveled  little  Mexican  herder. 
He  slouched  out  toward  the  flock  and  called  his 
son  to  dinner.  No,  it  was  not  so  many  years  — 
was  not  the  Senorita  but  twenty  years  old?  — 
since  he  had  wooed  the  Senora  Loring,  then  a 
slim  dark  girl  of  the  people,  his  people,  but  now 
the  wealthy  Sefiora,  wife  of  his  patron.  Ah,  yes! 
It  was  good  that  she  should  have  the  comfort- 
able home  and  the  beautiful  daughter.  He  had 
nothing  but  his  beloved  sheep,  but  did  they  not 
belong  to  his  Senorita? 

At  the  ford  the  girl  took  the  trail  to  the  up- 
lands, deciding  to  visit  the  farthest  camp  first, 
and  then,  if  she  had  time,  to  call  at  one  or  two 
other  camps  on  her  way  back  to  the  rancho.  As 
the  trail  grew  steeper,  she  curbed  the  impatient 
Challenge  to  a  steadier  pace  and  rode  leisurely 
to  the  level  of  the  timber.  On  the  park-like  level, 
clean-swept  between  the  boles  of  the  great  pines, 
she  again  put  Challenge  to  a  lope  until  she  came 

58 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

to  the  edge  on  the  upper  mesa.   Then  she  drew 
up  suddenly  and  held  the  horse  in. 

Far  out  on  the  mesa  was  the  figure  of  a  man, 
on  foot.  Toward  him  came  a  horse  without 
bridle  or  saddle.  She  recognized  the  figure  as 
that  of  John  Corliss,  and  she  wondered  why  he 
was  on  foot  and  evidently  trying  to  coax  a  stray 
horse  toward  him.  Presently  she  saw  Corliss 
reach  out  slowly  and  give  the  horse  something 
from  his  hand.  Still  she  was  puzzled,  and  urging 
Challenge  forward,  drew  nearer.  The  stray,  see- 
ing her  horse,  pricked  up  its  ears,  swung  round 
stiffly,  and  galloped  off.  Corliss  turned  and  held 
up  his  hand,  palm  toward  her.  It  was  their  old 
greeting;  a  greeting  that  they  had  exchanged  as 
boy  and  girl  long  before  David  Loring  had  be- 
come recognized  as  a  power  to  be  reckoned  with 
in  the  Concho  Valley. 

"Peace?"  she  queried,  smiling,  as  she  rode  up. 

"Why  not,  Nell?" 

"Oh,  cattle  and  sheep,  I  suppose.  There's  no 
other  reason,  is  there?" 

Corliss  was  silent,  thinking  of  his  brother  Will. 

"Unless  —  Will  -  she  said,  reading  his 
thought. 

He  shook  his  head.  "That  would  be  no  reason 
for  —  for  our  quarreling,  would  it?" 

She  laughed.  "Why,  who  has  quarreled?  I'm 
sure  I  have  n't." 

59 


Sundown  Slim 

"But  you  don't  seem  the  same  —  since  Will 
left." 

"Neither  do  you,  John.  You  haven't  called 
at  the  rancho  for  —  well,  about  a  year." 

"And  then  I  was  told  to  stay  away  even  longer 
than  that." 

"Oh,  you  must  n't  mind  Dad.    He  growls  - 
but  he  won't  bite." 

Corliss  glanced  up  at  her.  His  steady  gray 
eyes  were  smiling,  but  his  lips  were  grave.  ' '  Would 
it  make  any  difference  if  I  did  come?" 

The  girl's  dark  face  flushed  and  her  eyes 
sparkled.  "Lots!  Perhaps  you  and  Dad  could 
agree  to  stop  growling  altogether.  But  we  won't 
talk  about  it.  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  are 
doing  up  here  afoot?" 

"Would  n't  tell  you  for  a  dollar,"  he  replied, 
smiling.  "My  horse  is  over  there  —  near  the 
timber.  The  rest  of  the  band  are  at  the  water- 
hole." 

"Oh,  but  you  will  tell  me!"  she  said.  "And 
before  we  get  back  to  the  canon." 

"I  was  n't  headed  that  way  — "  he  began;  but 
she  interrupted  quickly. 

"Of  course.  I'm  not,  either."  Then  she 
glanced  at  him  with  mischief  scintillating  in  her 
dark  eyes.  "Fernando  told  me  you  were  talking 
with  him  this  morning.  I  don't  see  that  it  has 
done  you  much  good." 

60 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

His  perplexity  was  apparent  in  his  silence. 

"Fernando  is  —  is  polite,"  she  asserted,  wheel- 
ing her  horse. 

Corliss  stood  gazing  at  her  unsmilingly.  "I 
want  to  be,"  he  said  presently. 

"Oh,  John!  I  —  you  always  take  things  so 
seriously.  I  was  just  'joshing5  you,  as  Fernando 
says.  Of  course  you  do !  Won't  you  shake  hands?  " 

He  strode  forward.  The  girl  drew  off  her 
gauntlet  and  extended  her  hand.  "Let's  begin 
over  again,"  she  said  as  he  shook  hands  with  her. 
"We've  both  been  acting." 

Before  she  was  aware  of  his  intent,  he  bowed 
his  head  and  kissed  her  fingers.  She  drew  her 
hand  away  with  a  little  cry  of  surprise.  She  was 
pleased,  yet  he  mistook  her  expression. 

He  flushed  and,  confused,  drew  back.  "I  —  I 
did  n't  mean  it,"  he  said,  as  though  apologizing 
for  his  gallantry. 

The  girl's  eyes  dilated  for  an  instant.  Then 
she  laughed  with  all  the  joyous  abandon  of 
youth  and  absolute  health.  "You  get  worse  and 
worse,"  she  said,  teasingly.  "Do  go  and  have 
another  talk  with  Fernando,  John.  Then  come 
and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Despite  her  teasing,  Corliss  was  beginning  to 
enjoy  the  play.  As  a  rule  undemonstrative,  he 
was  when  moved  capable  of  intense  feeling,  and 
the  girl  knew  it.  She  saw  a  light  in  his  eyes  that 

61 


Sundown  Slim 

she  recognized;  a  light  that  she  remembered  well, 
for  once  when  they  were  boy  and  girl  together 
she  had  dared  him  to  kiss  her,  and  had  not  been 
disappointed. 

:'You  are  cross  this  morning,"  she  said,  mak- 
ing as  though  to  go. 

"Well,  I've  begun  over  again,  Nell.  You  wait 
till  I  get  Chinook  and  we'll  ride  home  together." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  —  you're  not  going  that  way," 
she  mocked. 

:<  Yes,  I  am  —  and  so  are  you.  If  you  won't 
wait,  I  '11  catch  you  up,  anyway.  You  dare  n't 
put  Challenge  down  the  canon  trail  faster  than 
a  walk." 

"I  dare  n't?  Then,  catch  me!" 

She  wheeled  her  pony  and  sped  toward  the 
timber.  Corliss,  running  heavily  in  his  high- 
heeled  boots,  caught  up  his  own  horse  and  leaped 
to  the  saddle  as  Chinook  broke  into  a  run.  The 
young  rancher  knew  that  the  girl  would  do  her 
best  to  beat  him  to  the  canon  level.  He  feared 
for  her  safety  on  the  ragged  trail  below  them. 

Chinook  swung  down  the  trail  taking  the  turns 
without  slackening  his  speed  and  Corliss,  leaning 
in  on  the  curves,  dodged  the  sweeping  branches. 

Arrived  at  the  far  edge  of  the  timber,  he  could 
see  the  girl  ahead  of  him,  urging  Challenge  down 
the  rain-gutted  trail  at  a  lope.  As  she  pulled  up 
at  an  abrupt  turn,  she  waved  to  him.  He  ac- 

62 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

cepted  the  challenge  and,  despite  his  better  judg- 
ment, set  spurs  to  Chinook. 

Round  the  next  turn  he  reined  up  and  leaped 
from  his  horse.  Below  him  he  saw  Challenge, 
riderless,  and  galloping  along  the  edge  of  the 
hillside.  On  the  trail  lay  Eleanor  Loring,  her 
black  hair  vivid  against  the  gray  of  the  shale. 
He  plunged  toward  her  and  stooping  caught  her 
up  in  his  arms.  "  Nell !  Nell ! "  he  cried,  smoothing 
back  her  hair  from  her  forehead.  "God,  Nell! 
I  —  I  did  n't  mean  it." 

Her  eyelids  quivered.  Then  she  gasped.  He 
could  feel  her  trembling.  Presently  her  eyes 
opened  and  a  faint  smile  touched  her  white  lips. 
"I'm  all  right.  Challenge  fell  —  and  I  jumped 
clear.  Struck  my  head.  Don't  look  at  me  like 
that!  I'm  not  going  to  die." 

"I'm --I'm  mighty  glad,  Nell!"  he  said, 
helping  her  to  a  seat  on  the  rock  against  which 
she  had  fallen. 

Her  hands  were  busy  with  her  hair.  He  found 
her  hat  and  handed  it  to  her.  "If  my  head  was 
n't  just  splitting,  I  'd  like  to  laugh.  You  are  the 
funniest  man  alive !  I  could  n't  speak,  but  I 
heard  you  call  to  me  and  tell  me  you  did  n't  mean 
it !  Then  you  say  you  are  mighty  glad  I  'm  alive. 
Does  n't  that  sound  funny  enough  to  bring  a 
person  to  life  again?" 

"No,  it's  not  funny.   It  was  a  close  call." 

63 


Sundown  Slim 

She  glanced  at  his  grave,  white  face.  "Guess 
you  were  scared,  John.  I  did  n't  know  you  could 
be  scared  at  anything.  Jack  Corliss  as  white  as 
a  sheet  and  trembling  like  a  —  a  girl!" 

"On  account  of  a  girl,"  said  Corliss,  smiling  a 
little. 

"Now,  that  sounds  better.  What  were  you  do- 
ing up  on  the  mesa  this  afternoon?" 

"I  took  some  lump-sugar  up  for  my  old  pony, 
Apache.  He  likes  it." 

"Well,  I'll  never  forget  it!"  she  exclaimed. 
"How  the  boys  would  laugh  if  they  heard  you'd 
been  feeding  sugar  to  an  old  broken-down  cow- 
pony!  You!  Why,  I  feel  better  already." 

"  I  'm  right  glad  you  do,  Nell.  But  you  need  n't 
say  anything  about  the  sugar.  I  kind  of  like  the 
old  boss.  Will  you  promise?" 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  my  head!"  She  went 
white  and  leaned  against  him.  He  put  his  arm 
around  her,  and  her  head  lay  back  against  his 
shoulder.  "I'll  be  all  right  —  in  a  minute,"  she 
murmured. 

He  bent  above  her,  his  eyes  burning.  Slowly 
he  drew  her  close  and  kissed  her  lips.  Her  eyelids 
quivered  and  lifted.  "Nell!"  he  whispered. 

"Did  you  mean  it?"  she  murmured,  smiling 
wanly. 

He  drew  his  head  back  and  gazed  at  her  up- 
turned face.  "I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  and  drew 

64 


SHE  WENT  WHITE  AND  LEANED  AGAINST  HIM 


On  the  Canon  Trail 

herself  up  beside  him.  "Serves  me  right  for  put- 
ting Challenge  down  the  trail  so  fast." 

As  they  rode  homeward  Corliss  told  her  of  the 
advent  of  Sundown  and  what  the  latter  had  said 
about  the  wreck  and  the  final  disappearance  of 
his  "pal,"  Will  Corliss. 

The  girl  heard  him  silently  and  had  nothing 
to  say  until  they  parted  at  the  ford.  Then  she 
turned  to  him.  "I  don't  believe  Will  was  killed. 
I  can't  say  why,  but  if  he  had  been  killed  I  think 
I  should  have  known  it.  Don't  ask  me  to  explain, 
John.  I  have  always  expected  that  he  would 
come  back.  I  have  been  thinking  about  him 
lately." 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Corliss.  "Will 
always  had  what  he  wanted.  He  owns  a  half- 
interest  in  the  Concho.  I  can't  do  as  I  want  to, 
sometimes.  My  hands  are  tied,  for  if  I  made  a 
bad  move  and  lost  out,  I'd  be  sinking  Will's 
money  with  mine." 

"I  would  n't  make  any  bad  moves  if  I  were 
you,"  said  the  girl,  glancing  at  the  rancher's  grave 
face. 

"Business  is  business,  Nell.  We  need  n't  begin 
that  old  argument.  Only,  understand  this:  I'll 
play  square  just  as  long  as  the  other  side  plays 
square.  There's  going  to  be  trouble  before  long 
and  you  know  why.  It  won't  begin  on  the  west 
side  of  the  Concho." 


Sundown  Slim 

"Good-bye,  John,"  said  the  girl,  reining  her 
pony  around. 

He  raised  his  hat.  Then  he  wheeled  Chinook 
and  loped  toward  the  ranch. 

Eleanor  Loring,  riding  slowly,  thought  of  what 
he  had  said.  "He  won't  give  in  an  inch,"  she 
said  aloud.  "Will  would  have  given  up  the 
cattle  business,  or  anything  else,  to  please  me." 
Then  she  reasoned  with  herself,  knowing  that 
Will  Corliss  had  given  up  all  interest  in  the 
Concho,  not  to  please  her  but  to  hurt  her,  for  the 
night  before  his  disappearance  he  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him  and  she  had  very  sensibly  refused, 
telling  him  frankly  that  she  liked  him,  but  that 
until  he  had  settled  down  to  something  worth 
while  she  had  no  other  answer  for  him. 

She  was  thinking  of  Will  when  she  rode  in  to 
the  rancho  and  turned  her  horse  over  to  Miguel. 
Suddenly  she  flushed,  remembering  John  Cor- 
liss's eyes  as  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    BROTHERS 

As  Corliss  rode  up  to  the  ranch  gate  he  took 
the  mail  from  the  little  wooden  mail-box  and 
stuffed  it  into  his  pocket  with  the  exception  of 
a  letter  which  bore  the  postmark  of  Antelope 
and  his  address  in  a  familiar  handwriting.  He 
tore  the  envelope  open  hastily  and  glanced  at  the 
signature,  "Will." 

Then  he  read  the  letter.  It  told  of  his  brother's 
unexpected  arrival  in  Antelope,  penniless  and 
sick.  Corliss  was  not  altogether  surprised  except 
in  regard  to  the  intuition  of  Eleanor,  which  puz- 
zled him,  coming  as  it  had  so  immediately  pre- 
ceding the  letter. 

He  rode  to  the  rancho  and  ordered  one  of  the 
men  to  have  the  buckboard  at  the  gate  early 
next  morning.  He  wondered  why  his  brother 
had  not  driven  out  to  the  ranch,  being  well  known 
in  Antelope  and  able  to  command  credit.  Then 
he  thought  of  Eleanor,  and  surmised  that  his 
brother  possibly  wished  to  avoid  meeting  her. 
And  as  it  happened,  he  was  not  mistaken. 

On  the  evening  of  the  following  day  he  drove 
up  to  the  Palace  Hotel  and  inquired  for  his 

67 


Sundown  Slim 

brother.  The  proprietor  drew  him  to  one  side. 
"It's  all  right  for  you  to  see  him,  John,  but  I 
been  tryin'  to  keep  him  in  his  room.  He's  — 
well,  he  ain't  just  feelin'  right  to  be  on  the  street. 
Sabe?" 

Corliss  nodded,  and  turning,  climbed  the 
stairs.  He  knocked  at  a  door.  There  was  no 
response.  He  knocked  again. 

"What  you  want?"  came  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"It's  John,"  said  Corliss.   "Let  me  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Corliss  stepped  into  the 
room  to  confront  a  dismal  scene.  On  the  wash- 
stand  stood  several  empty  whiskey  bottles  and 
murky  glasses.  The  bedding  was  half  on  the 
floor,  and  standing  with  hand  braced  against  the 
wall  was  Will  Corliss,  ragged,  unshaven,  and 
visibly  trembling.  His  eyelids  were  red  and  swol- 
len. His  face  was  white  save  for  the  spots  that 
burned  on  his  emaciated  cheeks. 

"John!"  he  exclaimed,  and  extended  his  hand. 

Corliss  shook  hands  with  him  and  then  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  chair.  "Well,  Will,  if  you  're  sick, 
this  is  n't  the  way  to  get  over  it." 

"Brother's  keeper,  eh?  Glad  to  see  me  back, 
eh,  Jack?" 

"  Not  in  this  shape.  What  do  you  suppose  Nell 
would  think?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  I'm  sick. 
That's  all." 


The  Brothers 

"Where  have  you  been  —  for  the  last  three 
years?" 

"A  whole  lot  you  care.  Been?  I  have  been 
everywhere  from  heaven  to  hell  —  the  whole 
route.  I'm  in  hell  just  now." 

"You  look  it.  Will,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
You  want  to  quit  the  booze  and  straighten  up. 
You're  killing  yourself." 

"Maybe  I  don't  know  it!  Say,  Jack,  I  want 
some  dough.  I'm  broke." 

"All  right.  How  much?" 

"A  couple  of  hundred  —  for  a  starter." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"What  do  you  suppose?  Not  going  to  eat  it." 

"No.  And  you're  not  going  to  drink  it,  either. 
I'll  see  that  you  have  everything  you  need. 
You  're  of  age  and  can  do  as  you  like.  But  you  're 
not  going  to  kill  yourself  with  whiskey." 

Will  Corliss  stared  at  his  brother;  then  laughed. 
"  Have  one  with  me,  Jack.  You  did  n't  used  to  be 
afraid  of  it." 

"I'm  not  now,  but  I'm  not  going  to  take  a 
drink  with  you." 

"Sorry.  Well,  here's  looking."  And  the 
brother  poured  himself  a  half-tumblerful  of 
whiskey  and  gulped  it  down.  "Now,  let's  talk 
business." 

Corliss  smiled  despite  his  disgust.  "All  right. 
You  talk  and  I '11  listen." 

69 


Sundown  Slim 

The  brother  slouched  to  the  bed  and  sat 
down.  "How's  the  Concho  been  making  it?" 
he  asked. 

"We've  been  doing  pretty  fair.  I've  been 
busy." 

"How's  old  man  Loring?" 

"About  the  same." 

"Nell  gone  into  mourning?" 

Corliss  frowned  and  straightened  his  shoulders. 
"See  here,  Will,  you  said  you'd  talk  business. 
I'm  waiting." 

"Touched  you  that  time,  eh?  Well,  you  can 
have  Nell  and  be  damned.  No  Mexican  blood  for 


mine." 


"If  you  weren't  down  and  out — "  began 
Corliss;  then  checked  himself.  "Go  ahead. 
What  do  you  want?" 

"I  told  you  —  money." 

"And  I  told  you  —  no." 

The  younger  man  started  up.  "Think  because 
I'm  edged  up  that  I  don't  know  what's  mine? 
You've  been  piling  it  up  for  three  years  and 
I've  been  hitting  the  road.  Now  I've  come  to 
get  what  belongs  to  me  and  I'm  going  to  get 
it!" 

"All  right,  Will.  But  don't  forget  that  I  was 
made  guardian  of  your  interest  in  the  Concho 
until  you  got  old  enough  to  be  responsible.  The 
will  reads,  until  you  come  of  age,  providing  you 

70 


The  Brothers 

had  settled  down  and  showed  that  you  could 
take  care  of  yourself.  Father  did  n't  leave  his 
money  to  either  of  us  to  be  drunk  up,  or 
wasted." 

"Prodigal  son,  eh,  Jack?  Well,  I'm  it.  What's 
the  use  of  getting  sore  at  me?  All  I  want  is  a 
couple  of  hundred  and  I'll  get  out  of  this  town 
mighty  quick.  It's  the  deadest  burg  I've  struck 

yet." 

John  Corliss  gazed  at  his  brother,  thinking  of 
the  bright-faced,  blue-eyed  lad  that  had  ridden 
the  mesas  and  the  hills  with  him.  He  was 
touched  by  the  other's  miserable  condition,  and 
even  more  grieved  to  realize  that  this  condition 
was  but  the  outcome  of  a  rapid  lowering  of  the 
other's  moral  and  physical  well-being.  He  strode 
to  him  and  sat  beside  him.  "Will,  I'll  give  any- 
thing I  have  to  help  you.  You  know  that.  Any- 
thing !  You  're  so  changed  that  it  just  makes  me 
sick  to  realize  it.  You  need  n't  have  got  where 
you  are.  I  would  have  helped  you  out  any  time. 
Why  did  n't  you  write  to  me?" 

"Write?  And  have  you  tell  Nell  Loring  how 
your  good  little  brother  was  whining  for  help? 
She  would  have  enjoyed  that  —  after  what  she 
handed  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  she  said  to  you,"  said 
Corliss,  glancing  at  his  brother.  "But  I  know 
this:  she  did  n't  say  anything  that  was  n't  so.  If 

71 


Sundown  Slim 

that 's  the  reason  you  left  home,  it  was  a  mighty 
poor  one.  You've  always  had  your  own  way, 
Will." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  Who's  got  anything  to 
say  about  it?  You  seem  to  think  that  I  always 
need  looking  after  —  you  and  Nell  Loring.  I  can 
look  after  myself." 

"Does  n't  look  like  it,"  said  Corliss,  gesturing 
toward  the  washstand.  "Had  anything  to  eat 
to-day?" 

"No,  and  I  don't  want  anything." 

"Well,  wash  up  and  we'll  go  and  get  some 
clothes  and  something  to  eat.  I'll  wait." 

'You  need  n't.  Just  give  me  a  check  —  and  I 
won't  bother  you  after  that." 

"No.  I  said  wash  up!  Get  busy  now!" 

The  younger  man  demurred,  but  finally  did  as 
he  was  told.  They  went  downstairs  and  out  to 
the  street.  In  an  hour  they  returned,  Will  Corliss 
looking  somewhat  like  his  former  self  in  respect- 
able raiment.  "John,"  he  said  as  they  entered 
the  room  again,  "you've  always  been  a  good  old 
stand-by,  ever  since  we  were  kids.  I  guess  I  got 
in  bad  this  time,  but  I'm  going  to  quit.  I  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  the  Concho  —  you  know  why. 
If  you'll  give  me  some  dough  I'll  take  care  of 
myself.  Just  forget  what  I  said  about  my  share 
of  the  money." 

"Wait  till  morning,"  said  Corliss.  "I'll  take 

72 


The  Brothers 

the  room  next,  here,  and  if  you  get  to  feeling  bad, 
call  me." 

"All  right,  Jack.  I '11  cut  it  out.  Maybe  I  will 
go  back  to  the  Concho;  I  don't  know." 

"Wish  you  would,  Will.  You'll  get  on  your 
feet.  There's  plenty  to  do  and  we're  short- 
handed.  Think  it  over." 

"Does  —  Nell  —  ever  say  anything?"  queried 
the  brother. 

"She  talks  about  you  often.  Yesterday  we 
were  talking  about  you.  I  told  her  what  Sun- 
down said  about  — " 

"Sundown?" 

"  Forgot  about  him.  He  drifted  in  a  few  months 
ago.  I  met  up  with  him  at  the  water-hole  ranch. 
He  was  broke  and  looking  for  work.  Gave  him  a 
job  cooking,  and  he  made  good.  He  told  me  that 
he  used  to  have  a  pal  named  Will  Corliss  — " 

"And  Sundown 's  at  the  Concho!  I  never  told 
him  where  I  lived." 

"He  came  into  Antelope  on  a  freight.  Got 
side-tracked  and  had  to  stay.  He  did  n't  know 
this  used  to  be  your  country  till  I  told  him." 

"Well,  that  beats  me,  Jack!  Say,  Sun  was  just 
an  uncle  to  me  when  we  were  on  the  road.  We 
made  it  clear  around,  freights,  cattle-boats,  and 
afoot.  I  did  n't  hit  the  booze  then.  Funny  thing: 
he  used  to  hit  it,  and  I  kind  of  weaned  him.  Now 
it's  me  .  .  ." 

73 


Sundown  Slim 

"He's  straight,  all  right,"  said  Corliss.  "He 
'tends  right  to  business.  The  boys  like  him." 

"Everybody  liked  him,"  asserted  Will  Corliss. 
"But  he  is  the  queerest  Hobo  that  ever  hit  the 
grit." 

"Some  queer,  at  that.  It's  after  nine  now, 
Will.  You  get  to  bed.  I  want  to  see  Banks  a 
minute.  I'll  be  back  soon." 

When  John  Corliss  had  left  the  room,  some- 
thing intangible  went  with  him.  Will  felt  his 
moral  stamina  crumbling.  He  waited  until  he 
heard  his  brother  leave  the  hotel.  Then  he  went 
downstairs  and  returned  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey. 
He  drank,  hid  the  bottle,  and  went  to  bed.  He 
knew  that  without  the  whiskey  he  would  have 
been  unable  to  sleep. 

The  brothers  had  breakfast  together  next 
morning.  After  breakfast  Corliss  went  for  the 
team  and  returned  to  the  hotel,  hoping  to  induce 
his  brother  to  come  home  with  him.  Will  Corliss, 
however,  pleaded  weariness,  and  said  that  he 
would  stay  at  the  Palace  until  he  felt  bet- 
ter. 

"All  right,  Will.  I'll  leave  some  cash  with 
Banks.  He'll  give  you  what  you  need  as  you 
want  it." 

"Banks?  The  sheriff?" 

"Yes." 

74 


The  Brothers 

"Oh,  all  right.  Suppose  you  think  I'm  not  to 
be  trusted." 

"  No.  But  we  '11  leave  it  that  way  till  I  see  you 
again.  Write  in  if  you  need  me  —  and  take  care 
of  yourself.  When  you  get  ready  to  settle  down, 
I  '11  turn  over  your  share  of  the  Concho  to  you. 
So  long,  Will." 

Will  Corliss  watched  his  brother  drive  away. 
When  the  team  had  disappeared  up  the  road  he 
walked  down  the  street  to  the  sheriff's  office. 
The  sheriff  greeted  him  cordially. 

"I  came  for  that  money,  Jim." 

"Sure!  Here  you  are,"  and  the  sheriff  handed 
him  a  five-dollar  gold-piece. 

"Quit  kidding  and  come  across,"  said  Corliss, 
ignoring  the  significance  of  the  allowance. 

"Can't,  Will.  John  said  to  give  you  five  any 
time  you  wanted  it,  but  only  five  a  day." 

"He  did,  eh?  John's  getting  mighty  close  in 
his  old  age,  ain't  he?" 

"Mebby.  I  don't  know." 

"How  much  did  he  leave  for  me?" 

"Five  a  day,  as  I  said." 

"Oh,  you  go  to  hell!" 

The  sheriff  smiled  pleasantly.  "Nope,  Billy! 
I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  to  home.  Have  a 
cigar?" 

The  young  man  refused  the  proffered  cigar, 
picked  up  the  gold-piece  and  strolled  out. 

75 


Sundown  Slim 

The  sheriff  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Well,  if 
Billy  feels  that  way  toward  folks,  reckon  he  won't 
get  far  with  John,  or  anybody  else.  Too  dinged 
bad.  He  used  to  be  a  good  kid." 


CHAPTER  VII 

FADEAWAY'S  HAND 

FADEAWAY,  one  of  the  Concho  riders,  urged 
his  cayuse  through  the  ford,  reined  short,  and 
turned  to  watch  Chance,  who  accompanied  him. 
The  dog  drew  back  from  the  edge  of  the  stream 
and  bunching  himself,  shot  up  and  over  the 
muddy  water,  nor  did  the  jump  break  his  stride 
as  he  leaped  to  overtake  the  rider,  who  had 
spurred  out  of  his  way.  Fadeaway  cursed  joy- 
ously and  put  his  pony  to  a  lope.  Stride  for  stride 
Chance  ran  beside  him.  The  cowboy,  swaying 
easily,  turned  and  looked  down  upon  the  dog. 
Chance  was  enjoying  himself.  "Wonder  how 
fast  the  cuss  can  run?"  And  Fadeaway  swung 
his  quirt.  The  stride  quickened  to  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  the  cow-horse  at  top  speed.  The  dog  kept 
abreast  without  apparent  effort.  A  half-mile 
beyond  the  ford  the  pace  slackened  as  the  pony 
took  the  hill  across  which  the  trail  led  to  the  open 
mesas.  As  they  topped  the  rise  Fadeaway  again 
urged  his  cayuse  to  a  run,  for  the  puncher  had 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  his  companions  of 
"The  Blue,"  a  distant  cattle  ranch,  a  day  longer 
than  had  been  set  for  his  return  to  the  Concho. 

77 


Sundown  Slim 

Just  then  a  startled  jack  rabbit  leaped  up  and 
bounced  down  the  trail  ahead  of  them.  Fade- 
away jerked  his  horse  to  a  stop.  "Now  we'll  see 
some  real  speed!"  he  said.  There  was  a  flash  of 
the  dog's  long  body,  which  grew  smaller  and 
smaller  in  the  distance;  then  a  puff  of  dust  spurted 
up.  Fadeaway  saw  the  dog  turn  end  over  end, 
regain  his  feet  and  toss  something  in  the  air. 

"The  fastest  dog  in  Arizona,"  remarked  the 
cowboy.  "And  you,  you  glass-eyed  son  of  a  mis- 
take, you're  about  as  fast  as  a  fence-post!"  This 
to  his  patient  and  willing  pony,  that  again  swung 
into  a  run  and  ran  steadily  despite  his  fatigue,  for 
he  feared  the  instant  slash  of  the  quirt  should  he 
slacken  pace. 

Round  a  bend  in  the  trail,  where  an  arm  of  the 
distant  forest  ran  out  into  the  mesa,  Fadeaway 
again  set  his  horse  up  viciously.  Chance  stopped 
and  looked  up  at  the  rider.  The  cowboy  pointed 
through  the  thin  rim  of  timber  beyond  which  a 
herd  of  sheep  was  grazing.  "  Take  'em ! "  he  whis- 
pered. Chance  hesitated,  not  because  he  was 
unfamiliar  with  sheep,  but  because  he  had  been 
punished  for  chasing  and  worrying  them.  "Go 
to  it!  Take  'em,  Chance!" 

The  dog  slunk  through  the  timber  and  disap- 
peared. The  cowboy  rode  slowly,  peering 
through  the  timber.  Presently  came  the  trample 
of  frightened  sheep  —  a  shrill  bleating,  and  then 

78 


Fadeaway's  Hand 

silence.  Fadeaway  loped  out  into  the  open.  The 
sheep  were  running  in  all  directions.  He  whistled 
the  dog  to  him.  Chance's  muzzle  dripped  red. 
The  dog  slunk  round  behind  the  horse,  knowing 
that  he  had  done  wrong,  despite  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  set  upon  the  sheep. 

From  the  edge  of  the  timber  some  one  shouted. 
The  cowboy  turned  and  saw  a  herder  running 
toward  him.  He  reined  around  and  sat  waiting 
grimly.  When  the  herder  was  within  speaking 
distance,  Fadeaway's  hand  dropped  to  his  hip 
and  the  herder  stopped.  He  gesticulated  and 
spoke  rapidly  in  Spanish.  Fadeaway  answered, 
but  in  a  kind  of  Spanish  not  taught  in  schools  or 
heard  in  indoor  conversation. 

The  herder  pressed  forward.  "Why,  how! 
Fernando.  Now  what's  bitin'  you?" 

"The  sheep!  He  kill  the  lamb!"  cried  the 
herder. 

Fadeaway  laughed.  "Did,  eh?  Well,  I  tried  to 
call  him  off.  Reckon  you  heard  me  whistle  him, 
did  n't  you?" 

The  cowboy's  assertion  was  so  palpably  an 
insult  that  old  Fernando's  anger  overcame  his 
caution.  He  stepped  forward  threateningly. 
Fadeaway's  gun  was  out  and  a  splash  of  dust 
leaped  up  at  Fernando's  feet.  The  herder 
turned  and  ran.  Fadeaway  laughed  and  swung 
away  at  a  lope. 

79 


Sundown  Slim 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Concho  he  unsaddled, 
turned  his  pony  into  the  corral,  and  called  to 
Chance.  He  was  at  the  water-trough  washing  the 
dog's  muzzle  when  John  Corliss  appeared.  Fade- 
away straightened  up.  He  knew  what  was  com- 
ing and  knew  that  he  deserved  it.  The  effects  of 
his  conviviality  at  the  Blue  had  worn  off,  leaving 
him  in  an  ugly  mood. 

Corliss  looked  him  over  from  head  to  heel. 
Then  he  glanced  at  the  dog.  Chance  turned  his 
head  down  and  sideways,  avoiding  his  master's 
eye.  Fadeaway  laughed. 

"You  get  your  time!"  said  Corliss. 

"You're  dam'  right!"  retorted  Fadeaway. 

"And  you're  damned  wrong!  Chance  knows 
better  than  to  tackle  sheep  unless  he 's  put  up  to 
it.  You  need  n't  explain.  Bud  will  give  you  your 
time." 

Then  Corliss  turned  to  Shoop  who  had  just  rid- 
den in. 

"Chain  that  dog  up  and  keep  him  chained  up! 
And  give  Fadeaway  his  time,  right  up  to  the 
minute!" 

Shoop  dropped  easily  from  the  saddle,  led  his 
horse  toward  the  corral,  and  whistled  a  sprightly 
ditty  as  he  unsaddled  him. 

Fadeaway  rolled  a  cigarette  and  strolled  over 
to  the  bunk-house  where  he  retailed  his  visit  and 
its  climax  to  a  group  of  interested  punchers. 

80 


Fadeaway's  Hand 

"So  he  tied  the  can  onto  you,  eh?  And  for 
settin'  Chance  on  the  sheep?  He  ought  to  be 
much  obliged  to  you,  Fade.  They  ain't  room  for 
sheep  and  cattle  both  on  this  here  range.  We're 
gettin'  backed  plumb  into  the  sunset." 

Fadeaway  nodded  to  the  puncher  who  had 
spoken. 

"And  ole  man  Loring's  just  run  in  twenty 
thousand  head  from  New  Mex.,"  continued  the 
puncher.  "Wonder  how  Corliss  likes  that?" 

"Don'  know  —  and  dam'  'f  I  care.  If  a  guy 
can't  have  a  little  sport  without  gettin'  fired  for 
it,  why,  that  guy  don't  work  for  the  Concho. 
The  Blue's  good  enough  for  me  and  I  can  get  a 
job  ridin'  for  the  Blue  any  time  I  want  to  cinch 

upf 

"Well,  Fade,  I  reckon  you  better  cinch  up 
pronto,  then,"  said  Shoop  who  had  just  entered. 
"Here's  your  time.  Jack's  some  sore,  believe 
me!" 

"Sore,  eh?  Well,  before  he  gets  through  with 
me  he'll  be  sorer.  You  can  tell  him  for  me." 

*  'Course  I  can  —  but  I  ain't  goin'  to.  And  I 
would  n't  if  I  was  you.  No  use  showin'  your  hand 
so  early  in  the  game."  And  Shoop  laughed. 

"Well,  she's  full  —  six  aces,"  said  Fadeaway, 
touching  his  holster  significantly. 

"And  Jack  throws  the  fastest  gun  on  the 
Concho,"  said  Shoop,  his  genial  smile  gone;  his 

81 


Sundown  Slim 

face  flushed.  "I  been  your  friend,  if  I  do  say  it, 
Fade.  But  don't  you  go  away  with  any  little  ole 
idea  that  I  ain't  workin'  for  Jack  Corliss." 

"What's  that  to  me?  I'm  fired,  ain't  I?" 

"Correct.  Only  I  was  thinkin'  your  cay  use  is 
all  in.  You  could  n't  get  out  of  sight  on  him  to- 
night. BuVyou  can  take  one  of  my  string  and 
send  it  back  when  you  get  ready." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sweatin'  to  hit  the  trail,"  said 
Fadeaway,  for  the  benefit  of  his  audience. 

"All  right,  Fade.  But  the  boss  is.  It's  up  to 
you." 

After  he  had  eaten,  Fadeaway  rolled  his  few 
belongings  in  his  slicker  and  tied  it  to  the  saddle. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  Corliss,  but  like  men  of  his 
stamp  he  wanted  Corliss  to  know  that  he  was  not 
alone  unafraid,  but  willing  to  be  aggressive.  He 
mounted  and  rode  up  to  the  ranch-house.  Cor- 
liss, who  had  seen  him  approach  through  the  win- 
dow, sat  at  his  desk,  waiting  for  the  cowboy  to 
dismount  and  come  in.  But  Fadeaway  sat  his 
horse,  determined  to  make  the  rancher  come  out- 
side. 

Corliss  understood,  and  pushing  back  his 
chair,  strode  to  the  doorway.  "  Want  to  see  me?  " 
he  asked. 

Fadeaway  noticed  that  Corliss  was  unarmed, 
and  he  twisted  the  circumstance  to  suit  a  false 

82 


Fadeaway's  Hand 

interpretation  of  the  fact.  "Playin'  safe!"  he 
sneered. 

Corliss  flushed  and  the  veins  swelled  on  his 
neck,  but  he  kept  silent.  He  looked  the  cowboy 
in  the  eye  and  was  met  by  a  gaze  as  steady  as  his 
own;  an  aggressive  and  insolent  gaze  that  had  for 
its  backing  sheer  physical  courage  and  nothing 
more.  It  became  a  battle  of  mental  endurance 
and  Corliss  eventually  won. 

After  the  lapse  of  several  seconds,  the  cowboy 
spoke  to  his  horse.  "Come  on,  Doc!  The  son-of- 
a is  loco." 

Corliss  heard,  but  held  his  peace.  He  stood 
watching  the  cowboy  until  the  latter  was  out  01? 
the  road.  He  noticed  that  he  took  the  northern 
branch,  toward  Antelope.  Then  the  rancher 
entered  the  house,  picked  up  his  hat,  buckled  on 
his  gun,  and  hastened  to  the  corral.  He  saddled 
Chinook  and  took  the  trail  to  the  Loring  rancho. 

He  rode  slowly,  trying  to  arrive  at  the  best 
method  of  presenting  his  side  of  the  sheep -killing 
to  Loring.  He  hoped  that  Eleanor  Loring  would 
not  be  present  during  the  interview  with  her 
father.  He  was  disappointed,  for  she  came  from 
the  wide  veranda  as  he  rode  up  and  greeted  him. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  asked. 

"I  guess  not.  I'd  like  to  see  your  father." 

She  knew  that  her  father  had  forbidden  Corliss 
the  house,  and,  indeed,  the  premises.  She  won- 

83 


Sundown  Slim 

dered  what  urgency  brought  him  to  the  rancho. 
"I '11  call  him,  then." 

Corliss  answered  the  grave  questioning  in  her 
eyes  briefly.  "The  sheep,"  he  said. 

"Oh!"  She  turned  and  stepped  to  the  ver- 
anda. "Dad,  John  is  here." 

David  Loring  came  to  the  doorway  and  stood 
blinking  at  Corliss.  He  did  not  speak. 

"Mr.  Loring,  one  of  my  men  set  Chance  on  a 
band  of  your  sheep.  My  foreman  tells  me  that 
Chance  killed  a  lamb.  I  want  to  pay  for  it." 

Loring  had  expected  something  of  the  kind. 
"Mighty  proud  of  it,  I  reckon?" 

"No,  I'm  not  proud  of  it.  I  apologize  —  for 
the  Concho." 

"You  say  it  easy." 

"No,  it  is  n't  easy  to  say  —  to  you.  I'll  pay 
the  damage.  How  much?" 

"Your  dog,  eh?  Well,  if  you'll  shoot  the  dam* 
dog  the  lamb  won't  cost  you  a  cent." 

"No,  I  won't  shoot  the  dog.  He  was  put  up  to 
it.  I  fired  the  man  that  set  him  on  to  the  sheep." 

"That's  your  business.  But  that  don't  square 
you  with  me." 

"I'll  settle,  if  you'll  fix  the  price,"  said  Corliss. 

"You  will,  eh?  Then,  mebby  you'd  think  you 
was  square  with  ole  man  Loring  and  come  foolin' 
around  here  like  that  tramp  brother  of  yours. 
Fine  doin's  in  Antelope,  from  what  I  hear." 

84 


Fadeaway's  Hand 

"Dad!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  stepping  to  her 
father.  "Dad!" 

"You  go  in  the  house,  Nellie!  We'll  settle 
this." 

Corliss  dismounted  and  strode  up  to  Loring. 
"If  you  weren't  an  old  man  I'd  give  you  the 
licking  of  your  life!  I've  offered  to  settle  with 
you  and  I ' ve  apologized.  You  don't  belong  in  a 
white  man's  country." 

"I  got  a  pup  that  barks  jest  like  that  —  and 
he's  afraid  of  his  own  bark,"  said  Loring. 

"Have  it  your  way.  I'm  through."  And 
Corliss  stepped  to  his  horse. 

"Well,  I  ain't!"  cried  Loring.  "I'm  jest 
startin'  in!  You  better  crawl  your  cayuse  and 
eat  the  wind  for  home,  Mr.  Concho  Jack!  And 
lemme  tell  you  this:  they's  twenty  thousand 
head  of  my  sheep  goin'  to  cross  the  Concho,  and 
the  first  puncher  that  runs  any  of  my  sheep  is 
goin'  to  finish  in  smoke!" 

"All  right,  Loring.  Glad  you  put  me  on  to 
your  scheme.  I  don't  want  trouble  with  you,  but 
if  you're  set  on  having  trouble,  you  can  find  it." 

The  old  man  straightened  and  shook  his  fist  at 
the  rancher.  "Fust  time  you  ever  talked  like  a 
man  in  your  life.  Nex'  thing  is  to  see  if  you  got 
sand  enough  to  back  it  up.  There's  the  gate." 

Corliss  mounted  and  wheeled  his  horse.  The 
girl,  who  stood  beside  her  father,  started  forward 

85 


Sundown  Slim 

as  though  to  speak  to  the  rancher.  Loring  seized 
her  arm.  Her  face  flamed  and  she  turned  on  her 
father.  "Dad!  Let  me  go!" 

He  shrunk  beneath  her  steady  gaze.  He  re- 
leased her  arm  and  she  stepped  up  to  Corliss. 
"  I  'm  sorry,  John,"  she  said,  and  offered  her  hand. 

"You  heard  it  all,  Nell.  I'd  do  anything  to 
save  you  all  this,  if  I  could." 

"Anything?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  try  and  get  Will  —  to  —  stop  drinking. 
He  —  I  heard  all  about  it.  I  can't  do  anything  to 
help.  You  ought  to  look  after  him.  He's  your 
brother.  He's  telling  folks  in  Antelope  that  you 
refused  to  help  him.  Is  that  so?" 

"I  refused  to  give  him  two  hundred  dollars  to 
blow  in  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"Did  you  quarrel  with  Will?" 

"No.  I  asked  him  to  come  home.  I  knew  he 
would  n't." 

"Yes.  And  I  think  I  know  how  you  went  at  it. 
I  wish  I  could  talk  to  him." 

"I  wish  you  would.  You  can  do  more  with  him 
than  anybody." 

Loring  strode  toward  Corliss.  The  girl  turned 
to  her  father.  He  raised  his  arm  and  pointed 
toward  the  road.  "You  git!"  he  said.  She 
reached  up  and  patted  his  grizzled  cheek.  Then 
she  clung  to  him,  sobbing. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  "THE  LAST  CHANCE" 

THE  afternoon  following  the  day  of  his  dis- 
charge from  the  Concho,  Fadeaway  rode  into 
Antelope,  tied  his  pony  to  the  hitching-rail  in 
front  of  "The  Last  Chance,"  and  entered  the 
saloon.  Several  men  loafed  at  the  bar.  The  cow- 
boy, known  as  "a  good  spender  when  flush,"  was 
made  welcome.  He  said  nothing  about  being  out 
of  employment,  craftily  anticipating  the  possi- 
bility of  having  to  ask  for  credit  later,  as  he  had 
but  a  half-month's  pay  with  him.  He  was  dis- 
cussing the  probability  of  early  rains  with  a  com- 
panion when  Will  Corliss  entered  the  place. 

Fadeaway  greeted  him  with  loud,  counterfeit 
heartiness,  and  they  drank  together.  Their  talk 
centered  on  the  Concho.  Gradually  they  drew 
away  from  the  group  at  the  bar.  Finally  Corliss 
mentioned  his  brother.  Fadeaway  at  once  be- 
came taciturn. 

Corliss  noticed  this  and  questioned  the  puncher. 
"Had  a  row  with  Jack?"  he  asked. 

"Between  you  and  me,  I  did.  He  fired  me, 
couple  of  days  ago." 

"Full?" 

"Nope.  Chance  killed  one  of  Loring's  sheep. 

87 


Sundown  Slim 

John  hung  it  onto  me,  seein'  Chance  was  with  me. 
Guess  John's  gettin'  religion." 

Corliss  laughed,  and  his  lips  twisted  to  a  sneer. 
"Guess  he  is.  I  tried  to  touch  him  for  two  hun- 
dred of  my  own  money  and  he  turned  me  down. 
Maybe  I  like  it." 

"Turned  you  down,  eh!  That's  what  I  call 
nerve !  And  you  been  away  three  year  and  more. 
Reckon,  by  the  way  the  Concho  is  makin'  good, 
you  got  more'n  two  hundred  comin'.  She's  half 
yours,  ain't  she?" 

"Yes.  And  I'm  going  to  get  my  share.  He 
told  me  I  could  have  a  job  —  that  he  was  short- 
handed.  What  do  you  think  of  that!  And  I  own 
half  the  Concho!  I  guess  I'd  like  to  ride  range 
with  a  lot  of  —  well,  you  understand,  Fade.  I 
never  liked  the  Concho  and  I  never  will.  Let's 
have  another.  No.  This  is  on  me." 

Again  they  drank  and  Corliss  became  more 
talkative.  He  posed  as  one  wronged  by  society 
in  general  and  his  brother  especially. 

As  his  talk  grew  louder,  Fadeaway  cautioned 
him.  "Easy,  Billy.  No  use  advertisin'.  Come 
on  over  here."  And  Fadeaway  gestured  toward 
one  of  the  tables  in  the  rear  of  the  room. 

Corliss  was  about  to  retort  to  the  other's 
apparently  good-natured  interference  with  his 
right  to  free  speech,  when  he  caught  Fadeaway's 
glance.  "Well?"  he  exclaimed. 

88 


At  the  "Last  Chance 


>  9 


The  cowboy  evidently  had  something  to  say 
in  confidence.  Corliss  followed  him  to  one  of  the 
tables. 

"It's  this  way,"  began  the  cowboy.  "You're 
sore  at  Jack.  Now  Jack's  got  friends  here  and  it 
won't  help  you  any  to  let  'em  know  you're  sore 
at  him.  I  ain't  feelin'  like  kissin'  him  myself— 
right  now.  But  I  ain't  advertisin'  it.  What  you 
want  to  do  is  — " 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  me?"  interrupted 
Corliss. 

Fadeaway  laughed.  "Nothin'  —if  you  like. 
Only  there's  been  doin's  since  you  lit  out."  And 
he  paused  to  let  the  inference  sink  in. 

"You  mean—?" 

"Look  here,  Billy.  I  been  your  friend  ever 
since  you  was  a  kid.  And  seein'  you're  kind  of 
out  of  luck  makes  me  sore  —  when  I  think  what's 
yours  by  rights.  Mebby  I'm  ridin'  over  the  line 
some  to  say  it,  but  from  what  I  seen  since  you 
been  gone,  Jack  ain't  goin'  to  cry  any  if  you 
never  come  back.  Old  man  Loring  ain't  goin' 
to  live  more'n  a  thousand  years.  Mebby  Jack 
don't  jest  love  him  —  but  Jack  ain't  been  losin' 
any  time  since  you  been  gone." 

Corliss  flushed.  "I  suppose  I  don't  know  that! 
But  he  has  n't  seen  the  last  of  me  yet." 

"If  I  had  what's  comin'  to  you,  you  bet  I 
would  n't  work  on  no  cattle-ranch,  either.  I  'd 

89 


Sundown  Slim 

sure  hire  a  law-shark  and  find  out  where  I  got 
off." 

Fadeaway's  suggestion  had  its  intended  effect. 
The  younger  man  knew  that  an  appeal  to  the 
law  would  be  futile  so  long  as  he  chose  to  ignore 
that  clause  in  the  will  which  covered  the  con- 
tingency he  was  illustrating  by  his  conduct. 
Fadeaway  again  cautioned  him  as  he  became 
loud  in  his  invective  against  his  brother.  The 
cowboy,  while  posing  as  friend  and  adviser,  was 
in  reality  working  out  a  subtle  plan  of  his  own, 
a  plan  of  which  Corliss  had  not  the  slightest 
inkling. 

"And  the  Concho's  makin'  good,"  said  Fade- 
away, helping  himself  to  a  drink.  He  shoved  the 
bottle  toward  Corliss.  "Take  a  little  'Forget- 
it,'  Billy.  That's  her!  Here's  to  what's  yours!" 
They  drank  together.  The  cowboy  rolled  a  cigar- 
ette, tilted  back  his  chair,  and  puffed  thought- 
fully. "Yes,  she's  makin'  good.  Why,  Bud  is 
gettin'  a  hundred  and  twenty-five,  now.  Old 
Hi  Wingle  's  drawin'  down  eighty  —  Jack 's  pay- 
in'  the  best  wages  in  this  country.  Must  of 
cleaned  up  four  or  five  thousand  last  year.  And 
here  you're  settin',  broke." 

"Well,  you  needn't  rub  it  in,"  said  Corliss, 
frowning. 

Fadeaway  grinned.  "I  ain't,  Billy.  I'm  out 
of  a  job  myself :  and  nothin'  comin'  —  like  you." 

90 


At  the    'Last  Chance'1 

Corliss  felt  that  there  was  something  in  his 
companion's  easy  drift  that  had  not  as  yet  come 
to  the  surface.  Fadeaway's  hard-lined  face  was 
unreadable.  The  cowboy  saw  a  question  in  the 
other's  eyes  and  cleverly  ignored  it.  Since  meet- 
ing the  brother  he  had  arrived  at  a  plan  to  re- 
venge himself  on  John  Corliss  and  he  intended 
that  the  brother  should  take  the  initiative. 

He  got  up  and  proffered  his  hand.  "So-long, 
Billy.  If  you  ever  need  a  friend,  you  know  where 
to  find  him." 

"Hold  on,  Fade.   What's  your  rush?" 

"Got  to  see  a  fella.  Mebby  I'll  drop  in 
later." 

Corliss  rose. 

Fadeaway  leaned  across  the  table.  "  I  'm  broke, 
and  you're  broke.  The  Concho  pays  off  Mon- 
day, next  week.  The  boys  got  three  months 
comin'  —  close  to  eighteen  hundred  —  and  gold." 

"Gold?  Thought  John  paid  by  check?" 

"He's  tryin'  to  keep  the  boys  from  cashin'  in, 
here.  Things  are  goin'  to  be  lively  between  Lor- 
ing  and  the  Concho  before  long.  Jack  needs  all 
the  hands  he's  got." 

"But  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it, 
Fade." 

"Nothin',  'ceptin'  I'm  game  to  stand  by  a  pal 
—  any  time." 

"You  mean—?" 

91 


Sundown  Slim 

"Jest  a  josh,  Billy.  I  was  only  thinkin'  what 
could  be  pulled  off  by  a  couple  of  wise  ones.  So- 
long!" 

And  the  cowboy  departed  wondering  just  how 
far  his  covert  suggestion  had  carried  with  Will 
Corliss.  As  for  Will  Corliss,  Fadeaway  cared  noth- 
ing whatever.  Nor  did  he  intend  to  risk  getting 
caught  with  a  share  of  the  money  in  his  posses- 
sion, provided  his  plan  was  carried  to  a  conclu- 
sion. He  anticipated  that  John  Corliss  would  be 
away  from  the  ranch  frequently,  owing  to  the 
threatened  encroachment  of  Loring's  sheep  on 
the  west  side  of  the  Concho  River.  Tony,  the 
Mexican,  would  be  left  in  charge  of  the  ranch. 
Will  Corliss  knew  the  combination  of  the  safe  — 
of  that  Fadeaway  was  pretty  certain.  Should 
they  get  the  money,  people  in  the  valley  would 
most  naturally  suspect  the  brother.  And  Fade- 
away reasoned  that  John  Corliss  would  take  no 
steps  to  recover  the  money  should  suspicion 
point  to  his  brother  having  stolen  it.  Meanwhile 
he  would  wait. 

Shortly  after  Fadeaway  had  gone  out,  Will 
Corliss  got  up  and  sauntered  to  the  street.  He 
gazed  up  and  down  the  straggling  length  of  Ante- 
lope and  cursed.  Then  he  walked  across  to  the 
sheriff's  office. 

The  sheriff  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  which  he 

92 


At  the  "Last  Chance'1 

declined.  "  Better  sit  down,  Billy .  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

"Have  n't  got  time,"  said  Corliss.  "You  know 
what  I  came  for." 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  talk  about.  See 
here,  Billy,  you've  been  hitting  it  up  pretty 
steady  this  week.  Here's  the  prospect.  John 
told  me  to  hand  you  five  a  day  for  a  week.  You 
got  clothes,  grub,  and  a  place  to  sleep  and  all 
paid  for.  You  could  go  out  to  the  ranch  if  you 
wanted  to.  The  week  is  up  and  you're  goin'  it 
just  the  same.  If  you  want  any  more  money 
you'll  have  to  see  John.  I  give  you  all  he  left 
with  me." 

"By  God,  that's  the  limit!"  exclaimed  Corliss. 

"I  guess  it  is,  Billy.  Have  a  cigar?" 

Corliss  flung  out  of  the  office  and  tramped 
across  to  the  saloon.  He  called  for  whiskey  and, 
seating  himself  at  one  of  the  tables,  drank  stead- 
ily. Fadeaway  was  n't  such  a  fool,  after  all.  But 
robbery!  Was  it  robbery?  Eighteen  hundred 
dollars  would  mean  San  Francisco  .  .  .  Corliss 
closed  his  eyes.  Out  of  the  red  mist  of  remem- 
brance a  girl's  face  appeared.  The  heavy-lidded 
eyes  and  vivid  lips  smiled.  Then  other  faces,  and 
the  sound  of  music  and  laughter.  He  nodded  to 
them  and  raised  his  glass.  ...  As  the  raw  whis- 
key touched  his  lips  the  red  mist  swirled  away. 
The  dingy  interior  of  the  saloon,  the  booted  and 

93 


Sundown  Slim 

belted  riders,  the  grimy  floor  littered  with  ciga- 
rette-ends, the  hanging  oil-lamp  with  its  black- 
ened chimney,  flashed  up  and  spread  before  him 
like  the  speeding  film  of  a  picture,  stationary 
upon  the  screen  of  his  vision,  yet  trembling  to- 
ward a  change  of  scene.  A  blur  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  In  the  nightmare  of  his  intoxication 
he  welcomed  the  change.  Why  did  n't  some  one 
say  something  or  do  something?  And  the  fig- 
ure that  had  appeared,  why  should  it  pause  and 
speak  to  one  of  the  men  at  the  bar,  and  not  come 
at  once  to  him.  They  were  laughing.  He  grew 
silently  furious.  Why  should  they  laugh  and  talk 
and  keep  him  waiting?  He  knew  who  had  come 
in.  Of  course  he  knew!  Did  Fadeaway  think  to 
hide  himself  behind  the  man  at  the  bar?  Then 
Fadeaway  should  not  wear  chaps  with  silver 
conchas  that  glittered  and  gleamed  as  he  shifted 
his  leg  and  turned  his  back.  "Said  he  was  my 
friend,"  mumbled  Corliss.  "My  friend!  Huh!" 
Was  it  a  friend  that  would  leave  him  sitting 
there,  alone? 

He  rose  and  lurched  to  the  bar.  Some  one 
steadied  him  as  he  swayed.  He  stiffened  and 
struck  the  man  in  the  face.  He  felt  himself 
jerked  backward  and  the  shock  cleared  his  vi- 
sion. Opposite  him  two  men  held  Fadeaway, 
whose  mouth  was  bleeding.  The  puncher  was 
struggling  to  get  at  his  gun. 

94 


At  the   "Last  Chance'1 

Corliss  laughed.  "Got  you  that  time,  you 
thief!" 

"He's  crazy  drunk,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
"  Don't  get  het  up,  Fade.  He  ain't  packin'  a  gun." 

Fadeaway  cursed  and  wiped  the  blood  from 
his  mouth.  He  was  playing  his  part  well.  Acci- 
dent had  helped  him.  To  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses they  were  open  enemies. 

Still,  he  was  afraid  Corliss  would  talk,  so  he 
laughed  and  extended  his  hand.  "Shake,  Billy. 
I  guess  you  did  n't  know  what  you  were  doin'. 
I  was  try  in'  to  keep  you  from  fallin'." 

Corliss  stared  at  the  other  with  unwinking 
eyes. 

Fadeaway  laughed  and  turned  toward  the 
bar.  "Ought  to  hand  him  one,  but  he's  all  in 
now,  I  reckon.  That 's  what  a  fella  gets  for  mixin' 
up  with  kids.  Set  'em  up,  Joe." 

Left  to  himself  Corliss  stared  about  stupidly. 
Then  he  started  for  the  doorway. 

As  he  passed  Fadeaway,  the  latter  turned  and 
seized  his  arm.  "  Come  on  up  and  forget  it,  Billy. 
You  and  me's  friends,  ain't  we?" 

The  cowboy,  by  sheer  force  of  his  personality, 
dominated  the  now  repentant  Corliss,  whose 
stubbornness  had  given  way  to  tearful  retrac- 
tion and  reiterated  apology.  Of  course  they 
were  friends! 

They  drank  and  Fadeaway  noticed  the  other's 

95 


Sundown  Slim 

increasing  pallor.  "  Jest  about  one  more  and  he  '11 
take  a  sleep,"  soliloquized  the  cowboy.  "In  the 
mornin'  's  when  I  ketch  him,  raw,  sore,  and 
ready  for  anything." 

One  of  the  cowboys  helped  Corliss  to  his  room 
at  the  Palace.  Later  Fadeaway  entered  the  hotel, 
asked  for  a  room,  and  clumped  upstairs.  He 
rose  early  and  knocked  at  Corliss's  door,  then 
entered  without  waiting  for  a  response. 

He  wakened  Corliss,  who  sat  up  and  stared 
at  him  stupidly.  "Mornin5,  Billy.  How's  the 
head?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Got  any  cash,  Fade?  I'm 
broke." 

"Sure.   What  you  want?" 

Corliss  made  a  gesture,  at  which  the  other 
laughed.  "All  right,  pardner.  I'll  fan  it  for  the 
medicine." 

When  he  returned  to  the  room,  Corliss  was  up 
and  dressed.  Contrary  to  Fadeaway's  expecta- 
tions, the  other  was  apparently  himself,  although 
a  little  too  bright  and  active  to  be  normal. 

"Guess  I  got  noisy  last  night,"  said  Corliss, 
glancing  at  Fadeaway's  swollen  lip. 

"Forget  it!  Have  some  of  this.  Then  I  got 
to  fan  it." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 
Me?  Over  to  the  Blue.  Got  a  job  waitin' for 


me." 


96 


At  the  "Last  Chance' 

Corliss's  fingers  worked  nervously.  "When 
did  you  say  the  Concho  paid  off?"  he  queried, 
avoiding  the  other's  eye. 

Fadeaway's  face  expressed  surprise.  "The 
Concho?  Why,  next  Monday.  Why?" 

"Oh  —  nothing.  I  was  just  wondering  .  .  ." 

"Want  to  send  any  word  to  Jack?"  asked  the 
cowboy. 

"No,  I  don't!   Thanks,  just  the  same,  Fade." 

"Sure!  Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'." 

"Wait  a  minute.  Don't  be  in  a  rush.  I  was 
thinking  ..." 

Fadeaway  strode  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  on  the  street.  His  apparent  indif- 
ference was  effective. 

"Say,  Fade,  do  you  think  we  could  —  could 
get  away  with  it?" 

"With  what?"  exclaimed  the  cowboy,  turning. 

"Oh,  you  know!  What  you  said  yesterday." 

"  Guess  I  said  a  whole  lot  yesterday  that  I  for- 
got this  mornin'.  I  get  to  joshin'  when  I'm 
drinkin'  bug-juice.  What  you  gettin'  at?" 

"The  money  —  at  the  Concho." 

"Oh,  that!  Why,  Billy,  I  was  jest  stringin' 
you !  Supposin'  somebody  was  to  make  a  try  for 
it;  there's  Chance  like  to  be  prowlin'  around  and 
the  safe  ain't  standin'  open  nights.  Besides, 
Jack  sleeps  next  to  the  office.  That  was  a  josh." 

"Well,  I  could  handle  Chance,"  said  Corliss. 

97 


Sundown  Slim 

"And  I  know  the  combination  to  the  safe,  if  it 
has  n't  been  changed.  You  said  Jack  was  likely 
to  be  away  nights,  now." 

Fadeaway  shook  his  head.  "You're  dreamin', 
Bill.  'Sides,  I  would  n't  touch  a  job  like  that 
for  less'n  five  hundred." 

"Would  you  —  for  five  hundred?" 

"I  dunno.  Depends  on  who  I  was  ridin'  with." 

"Well,  I'll  divvy  up  —  give  you  five  hundred 
if  you'll  come  in  on  it." 

Again  Fadeaway  shook  his  head.  "It's  too 
risky,  Billy.  'Course  you  mean  all  right  —  but 
I  reckon  you  ain't  got  nerve  enough  to  put  her 
through." 

"I  have  n't!"  flashed  Corliss.   "Try  me!" 

"And  make  a  get-away,"  continued  the  cow- 
boy. "I  would  n't  want  to  see  you  pinched." 

"I'll  take  a  chance,  if  you  will,"  said  Corliss, 
now  assuming,  as  Fadeaway  had  intended,  the 
role  of  leader  in  the  proposed  robbery. 

"How  you  expect  to  get  clear  —  when  they 
find  it  out?" 

"I  could  get  old  man  Soper  to  hide  me  out  till 
I  could  get  to  Sagetown.  He'll  do  anything  for 
money.  I  could  be  on  the  Limited  before  the 
news  would  get  to  Antelope." 

"And  if  you  got  pinched,  first  thing  you'd  sing 
out  'Fadeaway,'  and  then  me  for  over  the  road, 
eh?" 

98 


At  the  "Last  Chance' 

"Honest,  Fade.  I'll  swear  that  I  won't  give 
you  away,  even  if  I  get  caught.  Here 's  my  hand 
on  it." 

"Give  me  nine  hundred  and  I'll  go  you,"  said 
Fadeaway,  shaking  hands  with  his  companion. 

Corliss  hesitated.  Was  the  risk  worth  but  half 
the  money  involved?  "Five's  a  whole  lot,  Fade." 

"Well,  seein'  you're  goin'  to  do  the  gettin'  at 
it,  why,  mebby  I'd  risk  it  for  five  hundred.  I 
dunno." 

"You  said  you'd  stand  by  a  pal,  Fade.  Now's 
your  chance." 

"All  right.  See  here,  Bill.  You  cut  out  the 
booze  all  you  can  to-day.  Foot  it  out  to  the 
Beaver  Dam  to-night  and  I'll  have  a  boss  for 
you.  We  can  ride  up  the  old  canon  trail.  Nobody 
takes  her  nowadays,  so  we'll  be  under  cover  till 
we  hit  the  ford.  We  can  camp  there  back  in  the 
brush  and  tackle  her  next  evenin'.  So-long." 

Fadeaway  was  downstairs  and  out  on  the 
street  before  Corliss  realized  that  he  had  com- 
mitted himself  to  a  desperate  and  dangerous 
undertaking.  He  recalled  the  expression  in  Fade- 
away's eyes  when  they  had  shaken  hands.  Un- 
questionably the  cowboy  meant  business. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUNDOWN'S  FRIEND 

BUD  SHOOP  was  illustrating,  with  quaint  and 
humorous  gestures  and  adjectives,  one  of  his 
early  experiences  as  Ranger  on  the  Apache  Res- 
ervation. The  men,  grouped  around  the  night- 
fire,  smoked  and  helped  the  tale  along  with  remi- 
niscent suggestions  and  ejaculations  of  interest 
and  curiosity.  In  the  midst  of  a  vivid  account  of 
the  juxtaposition  of  a  telephone  battery  and  a 
curious  yet  unsuspicious  Apache,  Shoop  paused 
in  the  recital  and  gazed  out  across  the  mesa. 
"It's  the  boss,"  he  said,  getting  to  his  feet. 
"Wonder  what 'sup?" 

Corliss  rode  into  camp,  swung  from  the  saddle, 
and  called  to  Shoop.  The  men  gazed  at  each 
other,  nodded,  and  the  words  "Loring"  and 
"sheep,"  punctuated  their  mutterings. 

Shoop  and  Corliss  talked  together.  Then  the 
foreman  called  to  Hi  Wingle,  asking  him  how  the 
"chuck"  was  holding  out. 

"Runnin'  short  on  flour  and  beans,  Bud.  Fig- 
ured on  makin'  the  Concho  to-morrow." 

Corliss  and  his  foreman  came  to  the  fire. 
"Boss  says  we're  goin'  to  bush  here  the  rest  of 
this  week,"  and  Corliss  nodded. 

100 


Sundown's  Friend 

"I'm  expecting  company  on  the  west  side," 
explained  Corliss. 

The  men  gazed  at  each  other  knowingly. 

"All  right,"  said  Wingle.  "Four  sacks  of  flour 
and  a  sack  of  frijoles'll  see  us  through.  Got 
enough  other  stuff." 

"Send  some  one  in  for  it,"  ordered  Corliss. 
"  I  'm  going  to  stay  with  the  outfit,  from  now  on." 

The  men  cheered.  That  was  the  kind  of  a  boss 
to  work  for !  No  settin'  back  and  lettin'  the  men 
do  the  fightin'!  Some  style  to  Jack  Corliss!  All 
of  which  was  subtly  expressed  in  their  applause, 
although  unspoken. 

"To  see  that  you  boys  don't  get  into  mischief," 
continued  Corliss,  smiling. 

"Which  means  keepin'  other  folks  out  of  mis- 
chief, eh,  patron?"  said  a  cow-puncher. 

At  the  word  "patron"  the  men  laughed. 
"They're  talkin'  of  turnin'  this  outfit  into  a 
sheep-camp,"  remarked  another.  "Ba-a-ah!" 
And  again  they  laughed. 

Shoop  motioned  to  Sundown  who  rose  from 
beside  the  fire.  "You  can  saddle  up,  Sun." 

Sundown  caught  up  his  horse  and  stood  wait- 
ing while  one  of  the  men  saddled  two  pack- 
animals.  "Tony  has  the  keys.  He'll  pack  the 
stuff  for  you,"  said  Corliss.  "Keep  jogging  and 
you  ought  to  be  back  here  by  sunup." 

The  assistant  cook  mounted  and  took  the  lead- 
101 


Sundown  Slim 

rope  of  the  pack-horses.  He  was  not  altogether 
pleased  with  the  prospect  of  an  all-night  ride,  but 
he  knew  that  he  had  been  chosen  as  the  one 
whose  services  could  most  easily  be  dispensed 
with  at  the  camp.  Silently  he  rode  away,  the 
empty  kyacks  clattering  as  the  pack-horses 
trotted  unwillingly  behind  him.  Too  busy  with 
the  unaccustomed  lead-rope  to  roll  cigarettes,  he 
whistled,  and,  in  turn,  recited  verse  to  keep  up 
his  spirits. 

About  midnight  he  discerned  the  outline  of  the 
low  ranch-buildings  and  urged  his  horse  to  a 
faster  gait.  As  he  passed  a  clump  of  cottonwoods, 
his  horse  snorted  and  shied.  Sundown  reined  him 
in  and  leaned  peering  ahead.  The  pack-animals 
tugged  back  on  the  rope.  Finally  he  coaxed  them 
past  the  cottonwoods  and  up  to  the  gate.  It  was 
open,  an  unusual  circumstance  which  did  not 
escape  his  notice,  He  drifted  through  the  shad- 
ows toward  the  corral,  where  he  tied  the  horses. 
Then  he  stepped  to  the  bunk-house,  found  a 
lantern  and  lighted  it.  He  hallooed.  There  was 
no  response.  He  stalked  across  to  the  ranch- 
house.  He  found  the  door  unlocked.  "Hi! 
Tony!"  he  called.  No  one  answered.  He  pushed 
the  door  open  and  entered.  Holding  the  lantern 
above  his  head  he  peered  around  the  room. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern  vague  outlines 
took  shape.  He  noticed  that  the  small  safe  in  the 

102 


Sundown's  Friend 

corner  was  open.  He  became  alarmed  and  again 
called.  He  heard  a  slight  movement  behind  him 
and  turned  to  see  the  door  close.  From  behind 
stepped  a  figure,  a  slender  figure  that  seemed 
unreal,  yet  familiar.  With  a  cry  of  surprise  he 
jumped  back  and  stood  facing  his  old  friend  and 
companion  of  the  road,  Will  Corliss. 

"Billy!"  he  ejaculated,  backing  away  and 
staring. 

"Yes,  it's  Billy."  And  Corliss  extended  his 
hand. 

"But  —  what,  where — ?"  Sundown  hesitated 
and  glanced  at  the  safe.  His  eyes  widened  and 
he  lowered  the  lantern.  "  Billy!"  he  said,  ignor- 
ing the  other's  proffered  hand,  "what  you  doin' 
here?" 

Corliss  assumed  a  nonchalant  air.  "  Shake,  pal ! 
It's  a  long  time  since  we  been  in  a  wreck,  eh?" 

Sundown  was  silent,  studying  the  other's  har- 
dened features.  "Billy!"  he  reiterated,  "what 
you  doin'  here?" 

Corliss  laughed  nervously.  "What  are  you 
doing  here?"  he  retorted,  —  "in  the  office  of  the 
Concho,  at  midnight?" 

"I  was  comin'  to  get  flour  and  beans  for  the 
camp  — "  he  began. 

Corliss  interrupted  him.  "Sounds  good,  that! 
But  they  don't  keep  the  grub  here.  Guess  you 
made  a  mistake." 

103 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown's  face  was  expressionless.  "Guess 
you  made  the  mistake,  Billy.  I  thought  you  was 
-dead." 

"Not  on  your  tin-type,  Sun." 

"I  never  thought  you  was  crooked,  Billy." 

" Crooked ! "  flashed  Corliss.  "Say,  you  —  you 
forget  it.  I'm  here  to  get  what's  coming  to  me. 
Jack  turned  me  down,  so  I'm  going  to  take 
what's  mine." 

"Mebby  it's  yours,  but  you  ain't  gettin'  it 
right,"  said  Sundown.  "I  —  I  —  never  thought 
you  was  — " 

"Oh,  cut  that  out!  You  did  n't  used  to  be  so 
dam'  particular." 

"I  never  swiped  a  cent  in  me  life,  Billy." 

"Well,  forget  it.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  You  go  ahead 
and  get  the  chuck.  Here  are  the  keys  to  the  store- 
room —  and  beat  it.  Just  forget  that  you  saw 
me;  that's  all." 

Sundown  shook  his  head.  "I  ain't  forgettin' 
that  easy,  Billy.  'Sides,  I'm  workin'  for  the 
Concho,  now.  They  're  treatin'  me  fine  —  and 
I  reckon  I  got  to  be  square." 

:*You  mean  you're  going  to  squeal  —  going 
back  on  your  old  pal,  eh?" 

Sundown's  face  expressed  conflicting  emotions. 
He  straightened  his  lean  shoulders.  "I  tell  you, 
Billy;  if  you  beat  it  now,  they  won't  be  nothin' 
to  squeal  about." 

104 


Sundown's  Friend 

"I'm  going  to."  And  Corliss  stepped  toward 
the  safe.  "Just  hold  that  light  this  way  a 
minute." 

Sundown  complied,  and  Corliss  thought  that 
the  other  had  overcome  his  scruples.  Corliss 
hastily  drew  a  small  canvas  sack  from  the  safe 
and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket.  Sundown  backed 
toward  the  door. 

Corliss  got  to  his  feet.  "Well,  so-long,  Sun. 
Guess  I '11  light  out." 

"Not  with  that,"  said  Sundown.  "I  ain't  no 
preacher,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  see  you  go  straight 
to  hell  and  me  do  nothin'.  Mebby  some  of  that 
dough  is  yourn.  I  dunno.  But  somebody's  goin' 
to  get  pinched  for  takin'  it.  Bein'  a  Bo,  it'll  be 


me." 


"So  that's  what's  worrying  you,  eh?  Scared 
you'll  get  sent  over  for  this.  Well,  you  won't. 
You  have  n't  got  anything  on  you." 

"'T  ain't  that,  Billy.   It's  you." 

Corliss  laughed.  "You're  getting  religion,  too. 
Well,  I  never  thought  you'd  go  back  on  me." 

"I  ain't.  I  was  always  your  friend,  Billy." 

Corliss  hesitated.  The  door  behind  Sundown 
moved  ever  so  little.  Corliss's  eyes  held  Sundown 
with  unwinking  gaze.  Slowly  the  door  swung 
open.  Sundown  felt  rather  than  heard  a  presence 
behind  him.  Before  he  could  turn,  something 
crashed  down  on  his  head.  The  face  of  his  old 

105 


Sundown  Slim 

friend,  intense,  hard,  desperate,  was  the  last 
thing  imaged  upon  his  mind  as  the  room  swung 
round  and  he  dropped  limply  to  the  floor. 

"Just  in  time,"  said  Fadeaway,  bending  over 
the  prostrate  figure.  "Get  a  move,  Bill.  I  fol- 
lowed him  from  the  cottonwoods  and  heard  his 
talk.  I  was  waitin'  to  get  him  when  he  come 
out,  but  I  seen  what  he  was  up  to  and  I  fixed 
him." 

Corliss  backed  against  the  wall,  trembling  and 
white.  "  Is  he  —  did  you  —  ?  " 

Fadeaway  grinned.  "No,  just  chloroformed 
him.  Get  a  move,  Bill.  No  tellin'  who'll  come 
moseyin'  along.  Got  the  stuff?" 

Corliss  nodded. 

Fadeaway  blew  out  the  light.  "Come  on,  Bill. 
She  worked  slick." 

"But  — he  knows  me,"  said  Corliss.  "He'll 
squeal." 

"And  I  reckon  Jack '11  believe  him.  Why,  it's 
easy,  Bill.  They  find  the  Bo  on  the  job  and  the 
money  gone.  Who  did  it?  Ask  me." 

At  the  cottonwoods  they  mounted.  "Now, 
you  fan  it  for  Soper's,"  said  Fadeaway.  "I'll 
keep  on  for  the  Blue.  To-morrow  evenin'  I'll 
ride  over  and  get  my  divvy." 

Corliss  hesitated. 

:<You  better  travel,"  said  Fadeaway,  reining 
his  horse  around.  "So-long." 

106 


Sundown's  Friend 

Chance,  a  prisoner  in  the  stable,  whined  and 
gnawed  at  the  rope  with  which  Corliss  had  tied 
him.  The  rope  was  hard-twisted  and  tough. 
Finally  the  last  strand  gave  way.  The  dog  leaped 
through  the  doorway  and  ran  sniffing  around  the 
enclosure.  He  found  Sundown's  trail  and  fol- 
lowed it  to  the  ranch-house.  At  the  threshold  the 
dog  stopped.  His  neck  bristled  and  he  crooked 
one  foreleg.  Slowly  he  stalked  to  the  prone  figure 
on  the  floor.  He  sniffed  at  Sundown's  hands  and 
pawed  at  him.  Slowly  Sundown's  eyes  opened. 
He  tried  to  rise  and  sank  back  groaning.  Chance 
frisked  around  him  playfully  coaxing.  Finally 
Sundown  managed  to  sit  up.  With  pain-heavy 
eyes  he  gazed  around  the  room.  Slowly  he  got  to 
his  feet  and  staggered  to  the  doorway.  He  leaned 
against  the  lintel  and  breathed  deeply  of  the 
fresh  morning  air.  The  clear  cold  tang  of  the 
storm  that  had  passed,  lingered,  giving  a  keen 
edge  to  the  morning.  "We're  sure  in  wrong," 
he  muttered,  gazing  at  Chance,  who  stood  watch- 
ing him  with  head  cocked  and  eyes  eager  for 
something  to  happen  —  preferably  action.  Sun- 
down studied  the  dog  dully.  "Say,  Chance,"  he 
said  finally,  "  do  you  think  you  could  take  a  little 
word  to  the  camp?  I  heard  of  dogs  doin'  such 
things.  Mebby  you  could.  Somebody 's  got  to  do 
somethin'  and  I  can't."  Painfully  he  stooped  and 
pointed  toward  the  south.  "  Go  tell  the  boss ! "  he 

107 


Sundown  Slim 

commanded.    Chance  whined.    "No,  that  way. 
The  camp!" 

Chance  nosed  across  the  yard  toward  the  gate. 
Then  he  stopped  and  looked  back.  Sundown 
encouraged  him  by  waving  his  arm  toward  the 
south.  "Go  ahead,  Chance.  The  boss  wants 
you." 

Chance  trotted  toward  the  cottonwood,  nosed 
among  them,  and  finally  took  Sundown's  trail 
to  the  knoll. 

Sundown  crept  to  the  bunk-house,  wondering 
what  had  become  of  the  Mexican,  Tony.  He 
determined  to  search  for  him,  but  became  dizzy, 
and,  crawling  to  a  bunk,  lay  back  groaning  as  the 
dull  pain  in  his  head  leaped  intermittently  to 
blinding  stabs  of  agony.  It  seemed  ages  before  he 
heard  the  quick  staccato  of  hoofs  on  the  road.  He 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  as  Shoop  and  Corliss 
rode  up  on  their  mud-spattered  and  steaming 
ponies.  Sundown  called  as  they  dismounted  at 
the  corral. 

Corliss  and  Shoop  stamped  in,  breathing  hard. 
"What's  up?"  questioned  Corliss. 

"They  —  they  got  the  money,"  muttered 
Sundown,  pointing  toward  the  office. 

"Who?  See  what's  up,  Bud." 

Shoop  swung  out  and  across  the  enclosure. 

Corliss  stooped  over  Sundown.  "What's 
wrong,  Sun?  Why,  Great  God,  you're  hurt!" 

108 


Sundown's  Friend 

The  rancher  brought  water  and  bathed  Sun- 
down's head.  "Who  did  it?"  he  questioned. 

"I  dunno,  boss.  I  come  and  caught  'em  at  it. 
Two  of  'em,  I  guess.  I  was  tryin'  to  stop  one 
fella  from  takin'  it  when  the  other  slips  me  one  on 
the  head,  and  I  takes  a  sleep.  I  was  lookin'  for 
Tony  in  the  office." 

"Where's  Tony?" 

"I  dunno.  I  was  goin'  to  see — but  —  my 
head  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right.  You  take  it  easy  as  you  can. 
I '11  find  out." 

And  Corliss  left  the  room.  With  Chance  he 
explored  the  outbuildings  and  finally  discovered 
the  Mexican  bound  and  gagged  in  the  stable. 
He  released  him,  but  could  make  nothing  of  his 
answers  save  that  some  one  had  come  at  night, 
tied  his  hands  and  feet,  and  carried  him  from  the 
ranch-house. 

Corliss  returned  to  Sundown.  In  the  bunk- 
house  he  encountered  Shoop. 

"They  robbed  the  safe,"  said  Shoop,  and  he 
spoke  with  a  strange  quietness.  "Better  come 
and  take  a  look,  Jack." 

"Didn't  blow  her,"  said  Shoop,  pointing 
toward  the  corner  as  they  entered  the  office. 

Corliss  knelt  and  examined  the  safe.  "The 
man  that  did  it  knew  the  combination,"  he 
said.  "There  is  n't  a  mark  on  the  door." 

109 


Sundown  Slim 

He  rose,  and  Shoop  met  his  eye.  Corliss  shook 
his  head.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  as  if  in  answer 
to  a  silent  questioning.  Then  he  told  Shoop  to 
look  for  tracks. 

"The  rain's  fixed  the  tracks,"  said  Shoop, 
turning  in  the  doorway.  "  But  it  ain't  drowned 
out  my  guess  on  this  proposition." 

"Well,  keep  guessing,  Bud,  till  I  talk  to  Sun- 
down." And  Corliss  walked  slowly  to  the  bunk- 
house.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk  and  laid 
his  hand  on  Sundown's  sleeve.  "Look  here,  Sun, 
if  you  know  anything  about  this,  just  tell  me. 
The  money 's  gone  and  you  did  n't  get  that  cut 
on  the  head  trying  to  take  it.  I  guess  you're 
straight,  all  right,  but  I  think  you  know  some- 
thing." 

Sundown  blinked  and  set  his  jaw. 

Corliss  observed  and  wisely  forbore  to  threaten 
or  command.  "Did  you  recognize  either  of  the 
men?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"No!"  lied  Sundown.  "Wasn't  I  hit  in  the 
back  of  me  head?" 

Corliss  smiled  grimly.  "What  were  you  doing 
when  you  got  hit?" 

"Tryin'  to  stop  the  other  guy  — " 

"What  did  he  look  like?" 

"I  dunno.  Me  lantern  was  on  the  floor.  He 
was  a  hefty  guy,  bigger 'n  you.  Mebby  six  feet 
and  pow'f ul  built.  Had  whiskers  so 's  I  could  n't 

110 


Sundown's  Friend 

pipe  his  face.  Big  puncher  hat  down  over  his 
eyes  and  a  handkerchief  tied  like  a  mask.  I  was 
scared  of  him,  you  bet!" 

Corliss  slowly  drew  a  sack  of  tobacco  and 
papers  from  his  pocket.  He  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
puffed  reflectively.  Then  he  laughed.  "I'm  out 
about  eighteen  hundred.  That's  the  first  thing. 
Next,  you  're  used  up  pretty  bad  and  we  're  short- 
handed.  Then,  we're  losing  time  trying  to  track 
the  thieves.  But  I'm  not  riled  up  a  little  bit. 
Don't  think  I'm  mad  at  you.  I'm  mighty  glad 
you  didn't  get  put  out  in  this  deal.  That's 
where  I  stand.  I  want  to  find  out  who  took  the 
money.  I  don't  say  that  I'll  lift  a  rein  to  follow 
them.  Depends  on  who  did  it." 

Sundown  winced,  and  gazed  up  helplessly.  He 
felt  oppressed  by  the  broad-chested  figure  near 
him.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  get  away  from  — 
what?  Not  Corliss,  for  Corliss  was  undoubtedly 
friendly.  In  a  flash  he  saw  that  he  could  not  get 
away  from  the  truth.  Yet  he  determined  to 
shield  his  old  pal  of  the  road.  "You're  sure 
givin'  me  the  third  degree,"  he  said  with  an  at- 
tempt at  humor.  "I  reckon  I  got  to  come 
through.  Boss,  are  you  believin'  I  did  n't  take 
the  cash?" 

"Sure  I  am!  But  that  is  n't  enough.  Are  you 
working  for  the  Concho,  Sun,  or  for  some  other 
outfit?" 

Ill 


Sundown  Slim 

"The  Concho,"  muttered  Sundown  stub- 
bornly. 

"And  I'm  the  Concho.  You're  working  for 
me.  Listen.  I've  got  a  yarn  to  spin.  The  man 
that  took  the  money  —  or  one  of  them  —  was 
short,  and  slim,  and  clean-shaved,  and  he  did  n't 
wear  a  puncher  hat.  You  were  n't  scared  of  him 
because  he  was  a  coward.  You  tried  to  get  him 
to  play  square  and  he  talked  to  you  while  the 
other  man  got  you  from  behind.  That's  just  a 
guess,  but  you  furnished  the  meat  for  it." 

"Me  hands  are  up,"  said  Sundown. 

"All  right.  I 'm  not  going  to  get  after  Billy  for 
this.  You  lied  to  me,  but  you  lied  to  save  your 
pal.  Shake!" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   STORM 

WILL  CORLISS,  riding  through  the  timberlands 
toward  the  west,  shivered  as  a  drop  of  rain 
touched  his  hand.  He  glanced  up  through  the 
trees.  The  sky  seemed  clouded  to  the  level  of  the 
pine-tops.  He  spurred  his  horse  as  he  again  felt  a 
spatter  of  rain.  Before  him  lay  several  miles  of 
rugged  trail  leading  to  an  open  stretch  across 
which  he  would  again  enter  the  timber  on  the 
edge  of  the  hollow  where  Soper's  cabin  was  con- 
cealed. When  Corliss  had  suggested  Soper's 
place  as  a  rendezvous,  Fadeaway  had  laughed  to 
himself,  knowing  that  old  man  Soper  had  been 
driven  from  the  country  by  a  committee  of  irate 
ranchers.  The  illicit  sale  of  whiskey  to  the  cow- 
boys of  the  Concho  Valley  had  been  the  cause  of 
Soper's  hurried  evacuation.  The  cabin  had  been 
burned  to  the  ground.  Fadeaway  knew  that 
without  Soper's  assistance  Corliss  would  be  un- 
able to  get  to  the  railroad  —  would  be  obliged 
either  to  return  to  the  Concho  or  starve  on  the 
empty  mesas. 

Corliss  bent  his  head  as  the  rain  drove  faster. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  mesa,  the 

113 


Sundown  Slim 

storm  had  increased  to  a  steady  dull  roar  of  rush- 
ing rain.  He  hesitated  to  face  the  open  and 
reined  up  beneath  a  spruce.  He  was  drenched 
and  shivered.  The  fever  of  drink  had  died  out 
leaving  him  unstrung  and  strangely  fearful  of 
the  night.  His  horse  stood  with  lowered  head,  its 
storm-blown  mane  whipping  in  the  wind  like  a 
wet  cloth.  A  branch  riven  from  a  giant  pine 
crashed  down  behind  him.  Corliss  jerked  up- 
right in  the  saddle,  and  the  horse,  obeying  the 
accidental  touch  of  the  spurs,  plodded  out  to  the 
mesa  with  head  held  sideways. 

The  rider's  hands  grew  numb  and  he  dropped 
the  reins  over  the  horn  and  shoved  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  Unaccustomed  to  riding  he  grew 
weary  and,  despite  the  storm,  he  drowsed,  to 
awaken  with  a  start  as  gusts  of  wind  swept 
against  his  face.  He  raised  his  dripping  hat  and 
shook  the  water  from  it.  Then  he  crouched  shiv- 
ering in  the  saddle.  He  cursed  himself  for  a  fool 
and  longed  for  shelter  and  the  warmth  of  a  fire. 
Slowly  a  feeling  of  helplessness  stole  over  him  and 
he  pictured  himself  returning  to  the  Concho  and 
asking  forgiveness  of  his  brother.  Yet  he  kept 
stubbornly  on,  glancing  ahead  from  time  to  time 
until  at  last  he  saw  the  dim  edge  of  the  distant 
timber  —  a  black  line  against  the  darkness.  He 
urged  his  horse  to  a  trot,  and  was  all  but  thrown 
as  the  animal  suddenly  avoided  a  prairie-dog 

114 


The  Storm 

hole.  The  sweep  of  the  storm  was  broken  as  he 
entered  the  farther  timber.  Then  came  the 
muffled  roll  of  thunder  and  an  instant  white  flash. 
The  horse  reared  as  a  bolt  struck  a  pine.  Came 
the  ghastly  whistle  of  flying  splinters  as  the  tree 
was  shattered.  Corliss  grabbed  the  saddle-horn 
as  the  horse  bolted  through  the  timberlands, 
working  against  the  curb  to  reach  the  open.  Once 
more  on  the  trail  the  animal  quieted.  They 
topped  a  gentle  rise.  Corliss  breathed  his  relief. 
Soper's  cabin  was  in  the  hollow  below  them. 

Cautiously  the  horse  worked  sideways  down 
the  ridge,  slipping  and  checking  short  as  the  loose 
stones  slithered  beneath  his  feet.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  hollow  Corliss  reined  up  and  shouted.  The 
wind  whipped  his  call  to  a  thin  shred  of  sound 
that  was  swept  away  in  the  roar  of  the  storm. 
Again  he  shouted.  As  though  in  answer  there 
came  a  burning  flash  of  blue.  The  dripping  trees 
surrounding  the  hollow  jumped  into  view  to  be 
blotted  from  sight  as  the  succeeding  crash  of 
thunder  diminished  to  far  titanic  echoes.  Where 
Soper's  cabin  had  stood  there  was  a  wet,  glisten- 
ing heap  of  fallen  logs  and  rafters,  charred  and 
twisted.  The  lightning  flash  had  revealed  more 
to  the  rider  than  the  desolation  of  the  burned  and 
abandoned  homestead.  He  saw  with  instant 
vividness  the  wrecked  framework  of  his  own 
plans.  He  heard  the  echo  of  Fadeaway's  sneering 

115 


Sundown  Slim 

laugh  in  the  fury  of  the  wind.  He  told  himself 
that  he  had  been  duped  and  that  he  deserved  it. 
Lacking  physical  strength  to  carry  him  through 
to  a  place  of  tentative  safety,  he  gave  up,  and 
credited  his  sudden  regret  to  true  repentance 
rather  than  to  weakness.  He  would  return  to  the 
Concho,  knowing  that  his  brother  would  forgive 
him.  He  wept  as  he  thought  of  his  attitude  of  the 
repentant  and  broken  son  returning  in  sorrow  to 
atone  for  his  sin  and  shame.  He  magnified  his 
wrongdoing  to  heroic  proportions  endeavoring 
to  filch  some  sentimental  comfort  from  the  ro- 
mantic. He  it  was  that  needed  the  sympathy  of 
the  world  and  not  his  brother  John;  John  was 
a  plodder,  a  clod,  good  enough,  but  incapable 
of  emotion,  or  the  finer  feelings.  And  Eleanor 
Loring  .  .  .  she  could  have  saved  him  from  all 
this.  He  had  begun  well;  had  written  acceptable 
verse  .  .  .  then  had  come  her  refusal  to  marry 
him.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  through  it  all! 
The  wind  and  rain  chastised  his  emotional  in- 
toxication, and  he  turned  shivering  to  look  for 
shelter.  Dismounting,  he  crept  beneath  a  low 
spruce  and  shivered  beneath  the  scant  covering 
of  his  saddle-blanket.  To-morrow  the  sun  would 
shine  on  a  new  world.  He  would  arise  and  con- 
quer his  temptation.  As  he  drifted  to  troubled 
sleep  he  knew,  deep  in  his  heart,  that  despite  his 
heroics  he  would  at  that  moment  have  given  the 

116 


The  Storm 

little  canvas  sack  of  his  brother's  money  for  the 
obliterating  warmth  of  intoxication. 

With  the  morning  sun  he  rose  and  saddled. 
About  to  mount,  his  stiffened  muscles  blundered. 
He  slipped  and  fell.  The  horse,  keen  with  hunger, 
jumped  away  from  him  and  trotted  down  the 
trail.  He  followed  shouting.  His  strength  gave 
out  and  he  gave  up  the  chase,  wondering  where 
the  horse  would  go.  Stumbling  along  the  slippery 
trail,  he  cursed  his  clumsiness.  A  chill  sweat 
gathered  on  his  face.  His  legs  trembled  and  he 
was  forced  to  rest  frequently.  Crossing  a  stream, 
he  stooped  and  drank.  Then  he  toiled  on,  eagerly 
scanning  the  hoof-prints  in  the  rain-gutted  trail. 

The  sun  was  high  when  he  arrived  at  the 
wagon-road  above  the  Concho.  Dazed  and  weak, 
he  endeavored  to  determine  which  direction  the 
horse  had  taken.  The  heat  of  the  sun  oppressed 
him.  He  became  faint,  and,  crawling  beneath  the 
shade  of  a  wayside  fir,  he  rested,  promising  him- 
self that  he  would,  when  the  afternoon  shadows 
drifted  across  the  road,  make  his  way  to  the  Con- 
cho. He  had  slept  little  more  than  an  hour  when 
the  swift  patter  of  hoofs  wakened  him.  As  he  got 
to  his  feet,  a  buckboard,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  pinto 
range-ponies,  drew  up.  Corliss  started  back. 
The  Mexican  driving  the  ponies  turned  toward 
the  sweet-faced  Spanish  woman  beside  him  as 
though  questioning  her  pleasure.  She  spoke  in 

117 


Sundown  Slim 

quick,  low  accents.  He  cramped  the  wagon  and 
she  stepped  to  the  road.  The  Senora  Loring, 
albeit  having  knowledge  of  his  recent  return  to 
Antelope,  his  drinking,  and  all  the  unsavory 
rumors  connected  with  his  return,  greeted  Cor- 
liss as  a  mother  greets  a  wayward  son.  She  set 
all  this  knowledge  aside  and  spoke  to  him  with 
the  placid  wisdom  of  her  years  and  nature.  Her 
gentle  solicitude  touched  him.  She  had  been  his 
foster-mother  in  those  years  that  he  and  his 
brother  had  known  no  other  fostering  hand  than 
that  of  old  Hi  Wingle,  the  cook,  whose  efforts  to 
"raise"  the  Corliss  boys  were  more  largely  faith- 
ful than  discriminating. 

Senora  Loring  knew  at  a  glance  that  he  was  in 
trouble  of  some  kind.  She  asked  no  questions, 
but  held  out  her  hands. 

Corliss,  blind  with  tears,  dropped  to  his  knee: 
"Madre!  Madre!"  he  cried. 

She  patted  his  head.  "You  come  with  me. 
Then  perhaps  you  have  to  say  to  me  that  which 
now  you  do  not  say." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  she  paid  no  attention, 
leading  the  way  to  the  buckboard.  He  climbed 
beside  the  driver,  then  with  an  ejaculation  of 
apology,  leaped  to  the  road  and  helped  her 
in. 

"Where  you  would  like  to  go?"  she  asked. 
"TheConcho?" 

118 


The  Storm 

Again  he  shook  his  head.   "I  can't.   I — " 

She  questioned  his  hesitation  with  her  eyes. 

"I'll  tell  you  when — when  I  feel  better. 
Madre,  I'm  sick." 

"  I  know,"  she  said. 

Then,  turning  to  the  driver,  she  gestured  down 
the  wagon-trail. 

They  drove  through  the  morning  woodlands, 
swung  to  the  east,  and  crossed  the  ford.  The 
clustered  adobes  of  the  Loring  homestead  glim- 
mered in  the  sun.  Corliss  glanced  across  the  river 
toward  the  Concho.  Again  the  Sefiora  Loring 
questioned  him  with  a  glance. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Away  —  anywhere,"  he 
said,  gesturing  toward  the  horizon. 

"You  come  home  with  me,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Nellie  is  not  at  the  home  to-day.  You  rest,  and 
then  perhaps  you  go  to  the  Concho." 

As  they  entered  the  gateway  of  the  Loring 
rancho,  Corliss  made  as  though  to  dismount. 
The  Senora  Loring  touched  his  arm.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders;  then  gazed  ahead  at  the  peaceful 
habitation  of  the  old  sheep-herder. 

The  Senora  told  the  driver  to  tie  the  team  and 
wait.  Then  she  entered  the  house.  Corliss  gazed 
about  the  familiar  room  while  she  made  coffee. 
Half  starved,  he  ate  ravenously  the  meal  she  pre- 
pared for  him.  Later,  when  she  came  and  sat 
opposite,  her  plump  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her 

119 


Sundown  Slim 

whole  attitude  restful  and  assuring,  he  told  her 
of  the  robbery,  concealing  nothing  save  the  name 
of  Fadeaway. 

Then  he  drew  the  canvas  sack  from  his  pocket. 
"I  thought  I  could  go  back  and  face  it  out,  but 
now,  I  can't.  Will  you  —  return  it  —  and  —  tell 
John?" 

She  nodded.  "Si!  If  you  wish  it  so,  my  son. 
You  would  not  do  that  as  I  would  tell  you  —  so 
I  say  nothing.  I  can  only  —  what  you  say  — 
help,  with  my  hands,"  and  she  gestured  grace- 
fully as  though  leading  a  child.  "You  have 
money  to  go  away?" 

"No,  madre." 

"Thenlgive  you  the  money."  And  the  Senora, 
ignoring  his  half-hearted  protests,  stepped  to  an 
adjoining  room  and  returned.  "Here  is  this  to 
help  you  go.  Some  day  you  come  back  strong 
and  like  your  father  the  big  John  Corliss.  Then 
I  shall  be  much  glad." 

"I '11  pay  it  back.  I'll  do  anything  - 

But  she  silenced  him,  touching  his  lips  with  her 
fingers.  "No.  The  promise  to  make  is  not  so 
hard,  but  to  keep  .  .  .  Ah!  When  you  come 
back,  then  you  promise;  si?" 

Not  a  word  of  reproof,  not  a  glance  or  a  look  of 
disapproval,  yet  Corliss  knew  that  the  Senora's 
heart  was  heavy  with  sorrow  for  him.  He  strode 
to  the  doorway.  Senora  Loring  followed  and 

120 


The  Storm 

called  to  the  driver.  As  Corliss  shook  hands  with 
her,  she  kissed  him. 

An  anger  against  himself  flushed  his  cheek.  "I 
don't  know  which  road  I  '11  take,  madre,  —  after 
I  leave  here,  —  this  country.  But  I  shall  always 
remember  .  .  .  And  tell  Nell  .  .  .  that  .  .  ." 
he  hesitated. 

The  Senora  smiled  and  patted  his  arm.  "Si! 
I  understand." 

"And,  madre,  there  is  a  man  —  vaquero,  or 
cook,  a  big  man,  tall,  that  they  call  Sundown, 
who  works  for  the  Concho.  If  you  see  him,  please 
tell  him  —  that  I  sent  it  back."  And  he  gestured 
toward  the  table  whereon  lay  the  little  canvas 
sack  of  gold.  "Good-bye!" 

He  stepped  hurriedly  from  the  veranda, 
climbed  to  the  seat  of  the  buckboard,  and  spoke 
to  the  driver.  For  a  long  time  the  Senora  stood 
in  the  doorway  watching  the  glint  of  the  speed- 
ing ponies.  Then  she  went  to  her  bedroom  and 
knelt  before  the  little  crucifix.  Her  prayer  was, 
strangely  enough,  not  for  Will  Corliss.  She  prayed 
that  the  sweet  Madonna  would  forgive  her  if  she 
had  done  wrong. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CHANCE  —  CONQUEROR 

SUNDOWN'S  return  to  the  camp  occasioned 
some  indirect  questioning  and  not  a  little  com- 
ment. He  told  the  story  of  his  adventure  at  the 
Concho  in  detail  up  to  the  point  of  his  conver- 
sation with  Will  Corliss.  Then  he  lapsed  into 
generalities,  exhibiting  with  some  little  pride  the 
wound  on  his  head  as  evidence  of  his  attempt  to 
prevent  the  robbery  and  incidentally  as  a  reason 
for  being  unable  to  discourse  further  upon  the 
subject.  His  oft-repeated  recital  invariably  con- 
cluded with,  "I  steps  in  and  tries  to  stop  the  first 
guy  when  Wham!  round  goes  the  room  and  I 
takes  a  sleep." 

The  men  seemed  satisfied  with  Sundown's 
graphic  account  in  the  main.  Hi  Wingle,  the 
cook,  asked  no  questions,  but  did  a  great  deal  of 
thinking.  He  was  aware  that  Will  Corliss  had 
returned  to  the  Concho,  and  also,  through  rumor, 
that  Corliss  and  Fadeaway  had  been  together  in 
Antelope.  The  fact  that  the  robbers  failed  to 
get  the  money  —  so  it  was  given  out  —  left  the 
drama  unfinished,  and  as  such  it  lacked  sustained 
interest.  There  would  be  no  bandits  to  capture; 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

no  further  excitement;  so  the  talk  eventually 
drifted  to  other  subjects. 

The  assistant  cook's  evident  melancholy  fin- 
ally gave  place  to  a  happier  mood  as  he  realized 
that  he  had  gained  a  modicum  of  respect  in  a 
camp  where  hitherto  he  had  been  more  or  less  of 
a  joke.  While  he  grieved  over  the  events  which 
led  up  to  his  newly  attained  prestige  as  a  man  of 
nerve,  he  was  not  a  little  proud  of  the  prestige  it- 
self, and  principally  because  he  lacked  the  very 
quality  of  courage  that  he  was  now  accredited 
with.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  he  had  "played 
square,"  as  he  saw  it,  was  the  true  foundation  of 
his  attitude. 

He  discharged  his  duties  as  assistant  cook  with 
a  new  and  professional  flourish  that  amused  the 
riders.  When  they  rolled  from  their  blankets  in 
the  crisp  air  of  the  morning,  they  were  never  kept 
waiting  for  their  coffee,  hot  bread,  and  frijoles. 
Moreover,  he  always  had  a  small  fire  going,  around 
which  he  arranged  the  tin  plates,  cups,  knives 
and  forks.  This  additional  fire  was  acceptable, 
as  the  cooking  was  done  on  a  large  sheet-iron 
camp-stove,  the  immediate  territory  of  which 
was  sacred  to  Hi  Wingle.  Wingle,  who  had  been 
an  old-timer  when  most  of  the  Concho  hands 
were  learning  the  rudiments  of  the  game,  took 
himself  and  his  present  occupation  seriously.  His 
stove  was  his  altar,  though  burnt  offerings  were 

123 


Sundown  Slim 

infrequent.  He  guarded  his  culinary  precincts 
with  a  watchful  eye.  His  attitude  was  somewhat 
akin  to  that  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  in  the  hand- 
kerchief scene,  "Take  but  one  step  within  these 
sacred  bounds  and  on  our  head  I  '11  lunch  the  cuss 
of  Rum,"  or  something  to  that  effect.  He  was 
short,  ruddy,  and  bald,  and  his  antithesis,  Sun- 
down, was  a  source  of  constant  amazement  to 
him.  Wingle  had  seen  many  tall  men,  but  never 
such  an  elongated  individual  as  his  assistant.  It 
became  the  habit  of  one  or  another  of  the  boys  to 
ask  the  cook  the  way  to  the  distant  Concho,  usu- 
ally after  the  evening  meal,  when  they  were  loaf- 
ing by  the  camp-fire.  Wingle  would  thereupon 
scratch  his  head  and  assume  an  air  of  intense 
concentration.  "Well,"  he  would  invariably  re- 
mark, "you  take  the  trail  along  Sundown's  shad- 
der  there,  and  keep  a-fannin'  it  smart  for  about 
three  hours.  When  you  come  to  the  end  of  the 
shadder,  take  the  right  fork  of  the  river,  and  in 
another  hour  you'll  strike  the  Concho.  That's 
the  quickest  way."  And  this  bit  of  attenuated 
humor  never  failed  to  produce  an  effect. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  Sundown's 
return  to  his  duties  as  assistant,  while  Wingle 
was  drying  his  hands,  preparatory  to  reading  a 
few  pages  of  his  favorite  novel,  Sundown  ambled 
into  camp  with  an  armful  of  greasewood,  dumped 

124 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

it  near  the  wagon,  and,  straightening  up,  rolled  a 
cigarette. 

Wingle,  immersed  in  the  novel,  read  for  a 
while  and  then  glanced  up  questioningly. 

Sundown  shook  his  head. 

"Now  this  here  story,"  said  Wingle;  "I  read 
her  forty-three  times  come  next  round-up,  and 
blamed  if  I  sabe  her  yet.  Now,  take  it  where  the 
perfesser  —  a  slim  gent  with  large  round  eye- 
glasses behind  which  twinkled  a  couple  of  deep- 
set  studyus  eyes  —  so  the  book  says;  now,  take 
it  where  he  talks  about  them  Hopi  graves  over 
there  in  the  valley  — " 

"This  here  valley?"  queried  Sundown,  im- 
mediately interested. 

"Sure!  Well,  I  can  sabe  all  that.  I  seen 'em." 

"Seen 'em?" 

"Sure!  Why  Arizona's  got  more  leavin's  of 
history  and  dead  Injuns  and  such,  right  on  top  of 
the  ground,  than  any  other  State  in  the  Union. 
Why,  right  over  there  in  the  canon  of  the  Concho 
there's  a  hull  ruined  Injun  village  —  stones  piled 
up  in  little  circles,  and  what  was  huts  and  caves 
and  the  leavin's  of  a  old  irrigatin'  ditch  and 
busted  ollas,  and  bones  and  arrow-heads  and 
picture-writin'  on  the  rocks  —  bears  and  eagles 
and  mounting-lions  and  bosses  —  scratched  right 
on  the  rocks.  Them  cliffs  there  is  covered  with 
it." 

125 


Sundown  Slim 

"Them?"  queried  Sundown,  pointing  toward 
the  canon.  "  Do  they  charge  anything  to  see  it?  " 

"Well,  seein'  they  been  dead  about  a  thousand 
years,  I  reckon  not." 

"  A  thousand  years !  Huh !  I  ain  't  scared  of  no 
Injuns  a  thousand  years  old.  How  far  is  it  to 
them  picture-things?" 

"  'Bout  three  mile.  You  can  take  a  boss  and 
mosey  over  if  you  like.  Figure  on  gettin'  back 
'round  noon." 

"Any  snakes  over  there?" 

"Comf 'table  thick.  You  might  get  a  pretty 
good  mess  of  'em,  if  you  was  to  take  your  time.  I 
never  bother  to  look  for  'em." 

Sundown  gazed  at  his  length  of  nether  limb 
and  sighed. 

"Snakes  won't  bother  you  none,"  said  Wingle, 
reassuringly.  "They  get  tired,  same  as  anybody, 
and  they'd  have  to  climb  too  fur  to  see  if  you  was 
to  home." 

Sundown  rose  and  saddled  a  horse.  He 
mounted  and  rode  slowly  toward  the  rim  of  the 
distant  canon.  At  the  canon's  brink,  he  dis- 
mounted and  led  his  horse  down  the  trail,  stop- 
ping frequently  to  gaze  in  wonderment  at  the 
painted  cliffs  and  masses  of  red  rock  strewn  along 
the  slopes.  High  up  on  the  perpendicular  face  of 
the  canon  walls  he  saw  many  caves  and  wondered 
how  they  came  to  be  there.  "Makes  a  fella  feel 

126 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

like  sayin'  his  prayers,"  he  muttered.   "Wisht  I 
knowed  one." 

He  drifted  on  down  the  trail,  which  wound 
around  huge  fragments  of  rock  riven  from  the 
cliffs  in  prehistoric  days.  He  was  awed  by  the  im- 
mensity of  the  chasm  and  talked  continuously 
to  his  horse  which  shuffled  along  behind  paying 
careful  attention  to  the  footing.  Arrived  at  the 
stream  the  horse  drank.  Sundown  mounted  and 
rode  along  the  narrow  level  paralleling  the  river 
course.  The  cafion  widened,  and  before  he  real- 
ized it  he  was  in  a  narrow  valley  carpeted  with 
bunch-grass  and  dotted  with  solitary  cypress  and 
infrequent  clumps  of  pine.  He  paused  to  inspect 
a  small  mound  of  rock  which  was  partially  sur- 
rounded by  a  wall  of  neatly  laid  stone.  Within 
the  semicircular  wall  was  a  hole  in  the  ground  — 
the  entrance  to  a  cave.  Farther  along  he  came 
upon  the  ruins  of  a  walled  square,  unmistakably 
of  human  construction.  He  became  interested, 
and,  tying  his  horse  to  a  scrub-cedar,  began  to  dig 
among  the  loose  stones  covering  the  interior  of 
the  square.  He  discovered  a  fragment  of  painted 
pottery  —  the  segment  of  an  olla,  smooth,  dark 
red,  and  decorated  with  a  design  in  black.  He 
rubbed  the  earth  from  the  fragment  and  polished 
it  on  his  overalls.  He  unearthed  a  larger  frag- 
ment and  found  that  it  matched  the  other  piece. 
He  was  happy.  He  forgot  his  surroundings,  and 

127 


Sundown  Slim 

scratched  and  dug  in  the  ruin  until  he  accumu- 
lated quite  a  little  pile  of  shards,  oddly  marked 
and  colored.  Eventually  he  gathered  up  his  spoils 
and  tied  them  in  his  handkerchief. 

Leaving  his  horse,  he  meandered  down  the 
valley  until  he  came  to  another  and  larger  cave. 
"Wonder  what's  down  there?"  he  soliloquized. 
"  Mebby  one  of  them  Injuns.  Been  there  a  thous- 
and years  waitin'  for  somethin'  to  turn  up. 
'Noughto  make  a  fella  tired,  waitin'  that  long." 
He  wanted  to  explore  the  cave,  but  he  was  afraid. 
Moreover,  the  interior  was  dark.  He  pondered. 
Finally  his  natural  fondness  for  mild  adventure 
overcame  his  fear.  "Got  some  matches!"  he  ex- 
claimed, joyfully.  "Wonder  if  it's  deep?  Guess 
I  could  put  me  legs  in  first,  and  if  nothin'  bites 
me  legs,  why,  I  could  follow  'em  down  to  bot- 
tom." He  put  his  head  in  the  hole.  "Hey!"  he 
hallooed,  "  are  you  in  there?  "  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
"Nothin'  doin'.  Well,  here  goes.  I  sure  want  to 
see  what's  down  there." 

In  his  excitement  he  overlooked  the  possibility 
of  disturbing  a  torpid  rattler.  He  slid  feet  first 
into  the  cave,  found  that  he  could  all  but  stand 
upright,  and  struck  a  match. 

The  ancient  Hopis  buried  their  dead  in  a  sit- 
ting posture  on  a  woven  grass  mat,  with  an  olla, 
and  frequently  a  bone  dagger,  beside  them.  In 

128 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

the  clean,  dry  air  of  the  uplands  of  Arizona  the 
process  of  decay  is  slow.  Sundown,  unaware  of 
this,  hardly  anticipated  that  which  confronted 
him  as  the  match  flamed  blue  and  flared  up,  light- 
ing the  interior  of  the  cave  with  instant  bril- 
liance. About  six  feet  from  where  he  crouched 
was  the  dried  and  shriveled  figure  of  a  Hopi  chief, 
propped  against  the  wall  of  the  cave.  Beside  the 
figure  stood  the  painted  olla  untarnished  by  age. 
The  dead  Indian's  head  was  bowed  upon  his 
breast,  and  his  skeleton  arms,  parchment-skinned 
and  rigid,  were  crossed  upon  his  knees. 

Sundown  scrambled  for  the  circle  of  daylight 
above  him.  "Gee  Gosh!"  he  panted,  as  he  got 
to  his  feet  outside  the  cave.  "It  was  him!"  He 
clambered  over  the  circle  of  stones  and  backed 
away,  eyeing  the  entrance  as  though  he  expected 
to  see  the  Hopi  emerge  at  any  moment.  He 
crouched  behind  a  boulder,  his  pulses  racing.  He 
was  keyed  to  a  high  tension  of  expectancy.  In 
fact,  he  was  in  a  decidedly  receptive  mood  for 
that  which  immediately  happened.  He  noticed 
that  his  horse,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  up  the  val- 
ley, was  circling  the  cedar  and  pulling  back  on 
the  reins.  He  wondered  what  was  the  matter 
with  him.  The  horse  was  usually  a  well-behaved 
animal.  The  explanation  came  rapidly.  Sun- 
down saw  the  horse  back  and  tear  loose  from  the 
cedar;  saw  him  whirl  and  charge  down  the  valley 

129 


Sundown  Slim 

snorting.  "Guess  he  seen  one,  too!"  said  Sun- 
down making  no  effort  to  check  the  frightened 
animal.  Almost  immediately  came  the  long- 
drawn  bell  of  a  dog  following  a  hot  scent.  Sun- 
down turned  from  watching  his  vanishing  steed 
and  saw  a  huge  timber-wolf  leap  from  a  thicket. 
Behind  the  wolf  came  Chance,  neck  outstretched, 
and  flanks  working  at  top  speed.  The  wolf 
dodged  a  boulder,  flashing  around  it  with  no  ap- 
parent loss  of  ground.  Chance  rose  over  the 
boulder  as  though  borne  on  the  wind.  The  wolf 
turned  and  snapped  at  him.  Sundown  decided 
instantly  that  the  sepulcher  of  the  dead  Hopi  was 
preferable  to  the  proximity  of  the  live  wolf,  and 
he  made  for  the  cave. 

The  wolf  circled  the  wall  of  stones  and  also 
made  for  the  cave.  Sundown  had  arrived  a  lit- 
tle ahead  of  him.  The  top  of  Sundown's  head 
appeared  for  an  instant;  then  vanished.  The 
wolf  backed  snarling  against  the  wall  as  Chance 
leaped  in.  When  Sundown's  head  again  ap- 
peared, the  whirling  mass  of  writhing  fur  and 
kicking  legs  had  taken  more  definite  shape. 
Chance  had  fastened  on  the  wolf's  shoulder. 
The  wolf  was  slashing  effectively  at  the  dog's 
side.  Presently  they  lay  down  facing  each  other. 
Chance  licked  a  long  gash  in  his  foreleg.  The 
wolf  snapped  as  he  lay  and  a  red  slaver  dripped 
from  his  fangs.  Not  twelve  feet  away,  Sundown 

130 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

gazed  upon  the  scene  with  fear- wide  eyes.  "Go 
to  it,  Chance!"  he  quavered,  and  his  encourage- 
ment was  all  but  the  dog's  undoing,  for  he  lost 
the  wolf's  gaze  for  an  instant,  barely  turning 
in  time  to  meet  the  vicious  charge.  Sundown 
groaned  as  the  wolf,  with  a  slashing  stroke,  ripped 
the  dog's  neck  from  ear  to  shoulder.  The  stones 
in  the  enclosure  were  spattered  with  red  as  they 
whirled,  each  trying  to  reach  the  throat  of  the 
other.  Suddenly  Chance  leaped  up  and  over 
the  wolf,  lunging  for  his  neck  as  he  descended. 
The  wolf  rolled  from  under  and  backed  toward 
the  cave.  "Hey!"  yelled  Sundown.  "You  can't 
come  in  here!" 

Chance,  weakened  from  loss  of  blood,  lay 
watching  the  wolf  as  it  crouched  tensely.  Again 
the  great  gray  shadow  lunged  and  a  bright  streak 
sprung  up  on  the  dog's  side.  "  Gee  Gosh ! "  whined 
Sundown;  "he  can't  stand  much  more  of  that!" 
Undoubtedly  Chance  knew  it,  for  he  straight- 
way gathered  himself  and  leaped  in,  diving  low 
for  the  wolf's  fore  leg.  As  the  wolf  turned  his 
shoulder,  Chance  again  sprang  over  him  and, 
descending,  caught  him  just  behind  the  ear,  and 
held.  The  wolf  writhed  and  snarled.  Chance 
gripped  in  and  in,  with  each  savage  shake  of  his 
head  biting  deeper.  In  a  mighty  effort  to  free 
himself  the  wolf  surged  backward,  dragging 
Chance  around  the  enclosure.  Sundown,  rising 

131 


Sundown  Slim 

from  the  cave's  mouth,  crouched  before  it.  "  You 
got  him!  You  got  him!"  he  cried.  "Once  more, 
now!" 

The  body  of  the  wolf  quivered  and  sagged, 
then  stiffened  as  if  for  a  last  effort.  Chance  held. 
They  were  both  lying  on  the  stones  now,  Chance 
witn  fore  feet  braced  against  the  wolfs  chest. 
Presently  the  dog  gave  a  final  shake,  drew  back, 
and  lay  panting.  From  head  to  flanks  he  was 
soaked  with  blood.  The  wolf  was  dead. 

Sundown  stood  up.  "Good  boy,  Chance!"  he 
said.  The  great,  gaunt  body  of  the  dog  raised  it- 
self on  trembling  legs,  the  pride  of  the  conqueror 
lighting  for  a  moment  his  dimming  eyes.  "It's 
me,  Chance!"  said  Sundown,  stroking  the  dog's 
head.  Chance  wagged  his  tail  and  reaching  up 
his  torn  and  bleeding  muzzle  licked  Sundown's 
hand.  Then  slowly  he  sank  to  the  ground, 
breathed  heavily,  and  rolled  to  his  side.  Sun- 
down knelt  over  him  and  unaccustomed  tears 
ran  down  his  lean  cheeks  and  dripped  on  the 
clotted  fur.  :<You  was  some  fighter,  Chance,  ole 
pal!  Gee  Gosh!  He's  nothin'  except  cuts  and 
slashes  all  over.  Gee  Gosh!"  He  drew  the  dog's 
head  to  his  lap  and  sat  crooning  weird,  broken 
words  and  stroking  the  torn  ears.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  and  put  his  hand  over  the  dog's  heart. 
Then  he  leaped  to  his  feet  and,  dumping  the  frag- 
ments of  pottery  from  his  bandanna,  tore  it  in 

132 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

strips  and  began  bandaging  the  wounds.  The 
gash  on  Chance's  neck  still  bled.  Sundown  drew 
his  knife  and  cut  the  sleeve  from  his  shirt.  He 
ripped  it  open  and  bound  the  dog's  neck.  Real- 
izing that  Chance  was  not  dead,  he  became  vali- 
ant. "  We  sure  put  up  the  great  scrap,  did  n't 
we,  pal?  We  licked  him!  But  if  he'd  'a'  licked 
you  ..."  And  Sundown  gazed  at  the  still  form 
of  the  wolf  and  shuddered,  not  knowing  that  the 
wolf  would  have  fled  at  sight  of  him  had  he  been 
able  to  get  away  from  Chance. 

Two  hours  later,  Eleanor  Loring,  riding  along 
the  canon  stream,  met  a  lean  giant,  one  sleeve  of 
his  shirt  gone,  his  hat  missing,  and  his  hands 
splotched  with  blood.  His  eyes  were  wild,  his 
face  white  and  set.  He  carried  a  great,  shaggy 
dog  in  his  arms. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked,  swinging  from  her 
pony  and  coming  to  him. 

"Me?  No,  lady.  But  me  pal  here  is  hurt  bad. 
Jest  breathin'.  Killed  a  wolf  back  there.  Mebby 
I  can  save  him." 

"Why,  it's  Chance  —  of  the  Concho!" 

"Yes,  lady.  What  is  left  of  him." 

"Do  you  work  for  the  Concho?  Won't  you 
take  my  horse?" 

"  I'm  assistant  cook  at  the  camp.  No,  thanks, 
lady.  Ridin'  might  joggle  him  and  start  him  to 

133 


Sundown  Slim 

bleedin'.  I  can  carry  him  so  he  '11  be  easier- 
like." 

"But  how  did  it  happen?" 

"I  dunno.  Chance  chased  the  wolf  and  they 
went  to  it  where  I  was  explorin'  one  of  them 
caves.  I  guess  I  better  be  goin'." 

The  girl  reined  her  horse  around  and  rode 
down  the  valley  trail,  pausing  occasionally  to 
watch  the  tall  figure  climbing  the  canon  with 
that  shapeless  burden  in  his  arms.  "I  wonder  if 
any  other  man  on  the  Concho  would  have  done 
that?  "  she  asked  herself.  And  Sundown,  despite 
his  more  or  less  terrifying  appearance,  won  her 
estimation  for  kindness  at  once. 

Slowly  he  climbed  the  canon  trail,  resting  at 
each  level.  The  dog  hung  a  limp,  dead  weight  in 
his  arms.  Midway  up  the  trail  Sundown  rested 
again,  and  gazed  down  into  the  valley.  He  im- 
agined he  could  discern  the  place  of  the  fight. 
"That  there  wolf,"  he  soliloquized,  "he  was 
some  fighter,  too.  Mebby  he  did  n't  like  to  get 
licked  any  more  than  Chance,  here.  Wonder 
what  they  was  fightin'  about?  I  dunno.  But, 
Gee  Gosh,  she  was  one  dandy  scrap!" 

At  the  top  of  the  canon  wall  he  again  rested. 
He  expected  to  be  discharged  for  being  late,  but 
solaced  himself  with  the  thought  that  if  he  could 
save  Chance,  it  was  worth  the  risk. 

The  riders  had  returned  to  the  chuck-wagon 
134 


Chance  —  Conqueror 

when  Sundown  arrived  lugging  the  inert  body  of 
the  wolf-dog.  They  gathered  around  and  asked 
brief  questions.  Sundown,  busy  washing  the 
dog's  wounds,  answered  as  well  as  he  could.  His 
account  of  the  fight  did  not  suffer  for  lack  of 
embellishment,  and  while  he  did  not  absolutely 
state  that  he  had  taken  a  hand  in  the  fight,  his 
story  implied  it. 

"Don't  see  nothin'  on  you  to  show  you  been  in 
a  scrap,"  remarked  a  young  puncher. 

"That's  because  you  can't  see  in  deep  enough," 
retorted  Sundown.  "If  I  was  n't  in  every  jump 
of  that  fight,  me  heart  was." 

"Better  shoot  him  and  put  him  out  of  his 
sufferin',"  suggested  the  puncher. 

Sundown  rose  from  beside  the  dog.  Shoot 
Chance?  Not  so  long  as  he  could  keep  between 
the  dog  and  the  cowboy's  gun.  The  puncher, 
half  in  jest,  reached  for  his  holster.  Sundown's 
overwrought  nerves  gave  way.  He  dropped  to 
his  knees  and  lifted  his  long  arms  imploringly. 
"Don't!  Don't!"  he  wailed.  "He  ain't  dead! 
Don't  shoot  my  pal!" 

Bud  Shoop,  who  had  kept  silent,  shouldered 
the  puncher  aside.  "Cut  it  out,  Sinker,"  he 
growled.  "Can't  you  sabe  that  Sundown  means 
it?" 

Later  in  the  evening,  and  fortified  with  a 
135 


Sundown  Slim 

hearty  meal,  Sundown  gave  a  revised  version  of 
the  fight,  wherein  his  participation  was  modified, 
though  the  story  lost  nothing  in  re-telling.  And, 
indeed,  his  own  achievement,  of  lugging  Chance 
up  the  canon  trail,  awakened  a  kind  of  respect 
among  the  easy-going  cowboys.  To  carry  an 
eighty-pound  dog  up  that  trail  took  sand!  Again 
Sundown  had  unconsciously  won  their  respect. 
Nothing  was  said  about  his  late  return.  And 
his  horse  had  found  its  way  back  to  the  camp. 

Sometime  in  the  night,  Bud  Shoop  was  awak- 
ened by  the  man  next  him. 

"What's  goin'  on?"  queried  Shoop,  rising  on 
his  elbow. 

"Ask  me  again,"  said  the  puncher.   "Listen!" 

From  the  vicinity  of  the  wagon  came  the  gurgle 
of  water  and  then  a  distinctly  canine  sneeze. 

"Dinged  if  he  ain't  fussin'  with  that  dog 
again!"  grumbled  Shoop.  "The  dam'  fool!" 
Which,  as  it  is  the  spirit  which  giveth  life  to  the 
letter,  was  not  altogether  uncomplimentary. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    GIFT 

WARNED  by  John  Corliss  of  Loring's  evident 
intent  to  graze  his  sheep  on  the  west  side  of  the 
Concho  River,  the  cattle-men  held  a  quiet  meet- 
ing at  the  ranch  of  the  Concho  and  voted  unan- 
imously to  round  up  a  month  earlier  than  usual. 
The  market  was  at  a  fair  level.  Beef  was  in  de- 
mand. Moreover,  the  round-up  would,  by  the 
mere  physical  presence  of  the  riders  and  the 
cattle,  check  for  the  time  being  any  such  move  as 
Loring  contemplated,  as  the  camps  would  be  at 
the  ford.  Meanwhile  the  cattle-men  again  peti- 
tioned the  Ranger  at  Antelope  to  stir  up  the  ser- 
vice at  Washington  in  regard  to  grazing  allot- 
ments. 

The  round-up  began.  The  Concho  outfit 
moved  camp  to  the  ford  and  Sundown  had  his 
first  introduction  to  real  work.  From  morning 
till  night  and  far  into  the  night  the  fires  were  go- 
ing. Groups  of  belated  riders  swung  in  and  made 
for  the  chuck-wagons.  Sundown,  following  a 
strenuous  eighteen  hours  of  uninterrupted  toil, 
solemnly  borrowed  a  piece  of  "tarp"  from  his 
outfit  on  which  he  lettered  the  legend:—- 

137 


Sundown  Slim 

"CAFE  DE  CONCHO  — MEELS  AT  ALL 
HOURS  — PRIVIT  TABELS  FOR  LADYS" 

He  hung  the  tarp  in  a  conspicuous  place  and 
retired  to  rest.  The  following  morning  his  efforts 
were  applauded  with  much  picturesque  exple- 
tive, and  even  criticism  was  evoked  by  a  lean 
puncher  who  insisted  "  that  the  tall  guy  might  be 
a  good  cook  all  right,  but  he  sure  did  n't  know 
how  to  spell  'calf."  Naturally  the  puncher's 
erudition  leaned  toward  cattle  and  the  range. 

At  all  times  conspicuous,  for  he  topped  by  a 
head  and  shoulders  the  tallest  rider  on  the  range, 
Sundown  became  doubly  conspicuous  as  the  story 
of  his  experience  with  the  hold-ups  and  his  rescue 
of  Chance  became  known.  If  he  strutted,  it  was 
pardonable,  for  he  strutted  among  men  difficult 
to  wrest  approval  from,  and  he  had  won  their  ap- 
proval. 

At  Hi  Wingle's  suggestion,  he  "packed  a  gun" 
— a  formidable  .45  lent  him  by  that  gracious  indi- 
vidual, for*  it  grieved  the  solid  Wingle's  soul  to 
see  so  notable  a  character  go  unarmed.  Sun- 
down, like  many  a  wiser  man,  was  not  indifferent 
to  the  effect  of  clothing  and  equipment.  Obliged 
frequently  to  relate  his  midnight  adventure  with 
the  robbers,  he  became  a  past-master  in  the  art 
of  dramatic  expression.  "If  I'd  'a'  had  me  gun 
with  me,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  slapping  the  hol- 
ster significantly,  "the deal  might  'a'  turned  out 

138 


A  Gift 

different.  I  reckon  it's  luck  I  did  n't."  Which 
may  have  been  true  enough,  for  Sundown  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  afraid  to  use  the  weapon 
and  Fadeaway  might  have  misunderstood  his 
bungling. 

In  his  spare  time  he  built  a  lean-to  of  odds  and 
ends,  and  beneath  it  Chance  drowsed  away  the 
long,  sunny  hours  while  Sundown  was  rustling 
firewood  or  holding  hot  argument  with  an  ob- 
streperous dutch-oven.  And  Chance  became  the 
pet  and  the  pride  of  the  outfit.  Riders  from  dis- 
tant ranches  would  stray  over  to  the  lean-to  and 
look  at  him,  commenting  on  his  size  and  elaborat- 
ing on  the  fact  that  it  usually  took  two  of  the 
best  dogs  ever  whelped  to  pull  down  a  timber- 
wolf. 

Even  Fadeaway,  now  riding  for  the  Blue,  be- 
came enthusiastic  and  boasted  of  his  former 
friendship  with  Chance.  When  he  essayed  the 
intimacy  of  patting  the  dog's  head,  some  of  the 
onlookers  doubted  him,  for  Chance  received 
these  overtures  with  a  deep-throated  growl. 

"  He  won't  let  nobody  touch  him  but  that  Sun- 
down gent,"  cautioned  a  bystander. 

"Guess  he's  loco  since  he  got  chewed  up," 
said  Fadeaway,  retreating. 

Chance  licked  his  wounds  and  recovered 
slowly.  He  would  lie  in  the  sun,  watching  with 
unwinking  gaze  the  camp  and  the  cluster  of  men 

139 


Sundown  Slim 

about  it  until  the  form  of  Sundown  loomed 
through  the  mass.  Then  he  would  beat  the 
ground  with  his  tail  and  whine  expectantly.  As 
he  became  stronger,  he  ventured  to  stretch  his 
wound-stiffened  muscles  in  short  pilgrimages  to 
the  camp,  where  the  men  welcomed  him  with 
hearty  and  profane  zest.  Was  he  not  the  slayer 
of  their  enemy's  sheep  and  the  killer  of  the 
timber- wolf?  Eventually  he  was  presented  with 
a  broad  collar  studded  with  brass  spikes,  and  en- 
graved upon  it  was  the  sanguinary  and  somewhat 
ambiguous  legend:  "Chance  —  The  Killer  of  the 
Concho." 

John  Corliss,  visiting  the  round-up,  rode  over 
to  Sundown's  tepee,  as  it  was  called.  The  assist- 
ant cook  was  greasing  Chance's  wounds. 

"How  is  he  getting  along?"  asked  Corliss. 

"Fine,  boss,  fine!  This  here  is  some  little  ole 
red-cross  ward,  believe  me!  He's  gettin'  over 
bein'  lame  and  he  eats  regular." 

"Here,  Chance!"  called  Corliss. 

The  dog  rose  stiffly  and  stalked  to  his  master, 
smelt  of  him  and  wagged  his  tail,  then  stood  with 
lowered  head  as  though  pondering  some  serious 
dog-logic. 

"He's  kind  of  queer,"  explained  Sundown, 
"but  he's  a  whole  pile  better  than  he  was  a  spell 
ago.  Had  to  bring  him  water  and  feed  him  like 

140 


A  Gift 

a  baby  cuttin'  teeth  —  though  I  never  seen  one 
doin'  that.  He  would  n't  let  nobody  touch  him 
'ceptin'  me." 

"Is  he  able  to  travel?" 

"Oh,  some." 

"Think  he  could  make  it  to  the  Concho?" 

Sundown  hesitated.  "Mebby.  Yes,  I  reckon 
he  could.  He  can  run  all  right,  only  I  guess  he 
kind  of  likes  hangin'  around  me."  And  Sundown 
glanced  sideways  at  Corliss. 

"  He  seems  all  right.  I  guess  I  '11  take  him  back 
with  me.  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  his  running 
loose  here." 

"He  ain't  bitin'  nobody,"  assured  Sundown. 

Corliss  glanced  shrewdly  at  the  other's  lean, 
questioning  face.  "Guess  you  won't  miss  him 
much.  How  are  you  making  it?" 

"Me?  Fine!  Reckon  I'll  take  out  me  papers 
for  a  full-chested  range  cook  afore  long.  You  see 
the  L.D.  outfit  says  that  I  could  have  a  job  with 
them  after  the  round-up.  It  kind  of  leaked  out 
about  them  pies.  'Course  they  was  joshin', 
mebby.  I  dunno." 

"  The  L.D.  boys  are  all  right,"  said  Corliss.  "  If 
you  want  to  make  a  change  — " 

"See  here,  boss!  I  done  some  ramblin'  in  my 
time.  Guess  because  I  was  lookin'  for  somethin' 
new  and  excitin'.  Well,  I  reckon  they's  plenty 
new  and  excitin'  right  to  home  on  the  Concho. 

141 


Sundown  Slim 

Any  time  I  get  tired  of  fallin'  off  bosses,  and  get- 
tin'  beat  up,  and  mixin'  up  in  dog  and  wolf 
fights,  why,  I  can  go  to  bustin'  broncos  to  keep 
me  from  goin'  to  sleep.  Then  Chance  there,  he 
needs  lookin'  after." 

Corliss  seemingly  ignored  the  gentle  hint.  He 
mounted  and  called  to  the  dog.  Chance  made  no 
movement  to  folio  whim.  Corliss  frowned.  "Here, 
Chance!"  he  commanded,  slapping  his  thigh 
with  his  gauntleted  hand.  The  dog  followed  at 
the  horse's  heels  as  Corliss  rode  across  the  hard- 
packed  circle  around  the  camp.  Sundown's 
throat  tightened.  His  pal  was  gone. 

He  puttered  about,  straightening  the  blankets. 
"Gee  Gosh!  but  this  here  shack  looks  empty! 
Never  knowed  sick  folks  could  be  so  much  com- 
p'ny.  And  Chance  is  folks,  all  right.  Talk  about 
blue  blood!  Huh!  I  reckon  a  thoroughbred  dog 
is  prouder  than  common  folks,  like  me.  Some 
king,  he  was!  Layin'  there  lookin'  out  at  them 
punchers  and  his  eyes  sad-like  and  proud,  and 
turnin'  his  head  slow,  watchin'  'em  like  they  was 
workin'  for  him.  They  's  somethin'  about  class 
that  gets  a  fella,  even  in  a  dog.  And  most  folks 
knows  it,  but  won't  let  on." 

He  took  Chance's  drinking-basin  —  a  bread- 
pan  appropriated  from  the  outfit  —  and  the 
frayed  saddle-blanket  that  had  been  the  dog's 
bed,  and  carried  them  to  the  cottonwoods  edg- 

142 


A  Gift 

ing  the  river.  There  he  hid  the  things.  He  re- 
turned to  the  lean-to  and  threw  himself  on  his 
blankets.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  just  buried  a 
friend.  A  cowboy  strolled  up  and  squatted  in 
front  of  the  lean-to.  He  gazed  at  the  interior, 
nodded  to  Sundown,  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 
He  smoked  for  a  while,  glanced  up  at  the  sky, 
peered  round  the  camp,  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

Sundown  nodded.  "You  said  it  all,  Joe.  He's 
gone." 

The  cowboy  blew  rings  of  smoke,  watching 
them  spread  and  dissolve  in  the  evening  air. 
"Had  a  hoss  onct,"  he  began  slowly,  —  "ornery, 
glass-eyed,  she-colt  that  got  mixed  up  in  a  bob- 
wire  fence.  Seein'  as  she  was  like  to  make  the 
buzzards  happy  'most  any  day,  I  took  to  nussin' 
her.  Me,  Joe  Scott,  eh?  And  a  laugh  comin'. 
Well,  the  boys  joshed  —  mebby  you  hearn  some 
of  'em  call  me  Doc.  That's  why.  The  boys 
joshed  and  went  around  like  they  was  in  a  horse- 
pital,  quiet  and  steppin'  catty.  I  could  write  a 
book  out  of  them  joshin's  and  sell  her,  if  I  could 
write  her  with  a  brandin'-iron  or  a  rope.  Any- 
how, the  colt  she  gets  well  and  I  turns  her  out  on 
the  range,  which  ought  to  be  the  end  of  the  story, 
but  it  ain't.  She  come  nickerin'  after  me  like  I 
was  her  man,  hangin'  around  when  I  showed  up 
at  the  ranch  jest  like  I  was  a  millionaire  and  she 

143 


Sundown  Slim 

wantin'  to  get  married.  Could  n't  get  shet  of  her. 
So  one  day  I  ropes  her  and  says  to  myself  I'll 
make  a  trick  boss  of  her  and  sell  her.  The  fust 
trick  she  done  was  n't  the  one  I  reckoned  to  learn 
her.  She  lifted  me  one  in  the  jeans  and  I  like  to 
lost  all  the  teeth  in  my  head.  'You're  welcome, 
lady,'  says  I,  'for  this  here  'fectionate  token  of 
thanks  for  my  nussin'  and  gettin'  joshed  to  fare- 
ye-well.  Bein'  set  on  learnin'  her,  I  shortened  the 
rope  and  let  her  kick  a  few  holes  in  the  climate. 
When  she  got  tired  of  that,  I  begins  workin'  on 
her  head,  easy-like  and  talkin'  kind.  Fust  thing 
I  knowed  she  takes  a  san'wich  out  of  my  shirt, 
the  meat  part  bein'  a  piece  of  my  hide.  Then  I 
got  riled.  I  lit  into  her  with  the  boots,  and  we 
had  it.  When  I  got  tired  of  exercisin'  my  feet, 
she  comes  to  me  rubbin'  her  nose  ag'in'  me  and 
kind  of  nickerin'  and  lovin'  up  tremendous,  bein' 
a  she-hoss.  'Now,'  says  I,  'I'm  goin'  to  do  the 
courtin',  sister.'  And  I  sot  out  to  learn  her  to 
shake  hands.  She  got  most  as  good  as  a  state 
senator  at  it:  purfessional-like,  but  not  real  glad 
to  see  you.  Jest  put  on.  Then  I  learns  her  to 
nod  yes.  That  was  hard.  Then  I  gets  her  so  she 
would  lay  down  and  stay  till  I  told  her  to  get 
up.  'Course  it  takes  time  and  I  did  n't  have  the 
time  reg'lar.  I  feeds  her  every  time,  though. 
Then  she  took  to  sleepin'  ag'in'  the  bunk-house 
every  night,  seein'  as  she  run  loose  jest  like  a  dog. 

144 


A  Gift 

When  somebody 'd  get  up  in  the  mornin',  there 
she  would  be  with  her  eyes  lookin'  in  the  winder, 
shinin',  and  her  ears  lookin'  in,  too.  You  see  she 
was  waitin*  for  her  beau  to  come  out,  which  was 
me.  She  took  to  folio  win'  me  on  the  range  when 
I  rid  out,  and  she  got  fat  and  sizable.  The  boys 
give  up  joshin'  and  got  kind  of  interested.  But 
that  ain't  what  I  'm  gettin'  at.  Come  one  day, 
about  two  year  after  I'd  been  monkeyin'  with 
learnin'  her  her  lessons,  when  I  thinks  to  break 
her  to  ride.  I  got  shet  of  the  idea  of  sellin'  her 
and  was  goin'  to  keep  her  myself.  The  boys  was 
lookin'  for  to  see  me  get  piled,  always  figurin'  a 
pet  hoss  was  worse  to  break  than  a  bronc.  She 
did  some  fussin',  but  she  never  bucked  —  never 
pitched  a  move.  Thinks  I,  I  sure  got  a  winner. 
Next  day  she  was  gone.  Never  seen  her  after 
that.  Trailed  all  over  the  range,  but  she  sure 
vamoosed.  And  nobody  never  seen  her  after  that. 
She  sure  made  a  dent  in  my  feelin's." 

Sundown  sat  up  blinking.  "I  reckon  that 's  the 
difference  between  a  hoss  and  a  dog,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "Now,  a  hoss  and  me  ain't  what  you'd 
call  a  nacheral  combination.  And  a  hoss  gets 
away  and  don't  come  back.  But  a  dog  comes 
back  every  time,  if  he  can.  'Most  any  hoss  will 
stay  where  the  feedin'  is  good,  but  a  dog  won't. 
He  wants  to  be  where  his  boss  is." 

"And  that  there  Chance  is  with  the  boss,"  said 
145 


Sundown  Slim 

the  cowboy,  gesturing  toward  the  north.  "Seen 
him  foller  him  down  the  trail." 

Sundown  nodded.  The  cowboy  departed, 
swaggering  away  in  the  dusk. 

Just  before  Sundown  was  called  to  take  his 
turn  with  the  night-shift,  a  lean,  brown  shape 
tore  through  the  camp,  upsetting  a  pot  of  frijoles 
and  otherwise  disturbing  the  peace  and  order  of 
the  culinary  department. 

"Coyote!"  shouted  Wingle,  vainly  reaching 
for  the  gun  that  he  had  given  to  Sundown. 

"Coyote  nothin'!"  said  a  puncher,  laughing. 
"It's  the  Killer  come  back  hot-foot  to  find  his 
pardner." 

Chance  bounded  into  the  lean-to :  it  was  empty. 
He  sniffed  at  the  place  where  his  bed  had  once 
been,  found  Sundown's  tracks  and  followed  them 
toward  the  river.  Sundown  was  on  his  knees 
pawing  over  something  that  looked  very  much 
like  a  torn  and  frayed  saddle-blanket.  Chance 
volleyed  into  him,  biting  playfully  at  his  sleeve, 
and  whining. 

Sundown  jumped  to  his  feet.  He  stood  speech- 
less. Then  a  slow  grin  crept  to  his  face.  "Gee 
Gosh!"  he  said,  softly.  "Gee  Gosh!  It's  you!" 

Chance  lay  down  panting.  He  had  come  far 
and  fast.  Sundown  gathered  up  the  blanket  and 
pan,  rose  and  marched  to  the  shack.  "I  was 
airin'  'em  out  against  your  comin'  back,"  he  ex- 

146 


A  Gift 

plained,  untruthfully.  The  fact  was  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  see  the  empty  bed  in  the  lean-to 
and  had  hidden  it  in  the  bushes. 

The  dog  watched  him  spread  the  blanket,  but 
would  not  lie  down.  Instead  he  followed  Sun- 
down to  the  camp  and  found  a  place  under  the 
chuck- wagon,  where  he  watched  his  lean  com- 
panion work  over  the  fires  until  midnight.  If 
Sundown  disappeared  for  a  minute  in  search  of 
something,  Chance  was  up  and  at  his  heels.  Hi 
Wingle  expressed  himself  profanely  in  regard  to 
the  return  of  the  dog,  adding  with  unction, 
"There's  a  pair  of  'em;  a  pair  of  'em."  Which 
ambiguity  seemed  to  satisfy  him  immensely. 

When  Sundown  finally  returned  to  the  lean-to, 
he  was  too  happy  to  sleep.  He  built  a  small  fire, 
rolled  a  cigarette  and  sat  gazing  into  the  flames. 
Chance  sat  beside  him,  proud,  dignified,  con- 
tented. Sundown  became  drowsy  and  slept,  his 
head  fallen  forward  and  his  lean  arms  crossed 
upon  his  knees.  Chance  waited  patiently  for  him 
to  waken.  Finally  the  dog  nuzzled  Sundown's 
arm  with  little  jerks  of  impatience.  "What's 
bitin'  you  now?"  mumbled  Sundown.  "We're 
here,  ain  't  we?  "  Nevertheless  he  slipped  his  arm 
around  the  dog's  muscular  shoulders  and  talked 
to  him.  "How'd  you  get  away?  The  boss '11 
raise  peelin's  over  this,  Chance.  It  ain't  like  to 
set  good  with  him."  He  noticed  that  Chance  fre- 

147 


Sundown  Slim 

quently  scratched  at  his  collar  as  though  it  irri- 
tated him.  Finally  he  slipped  his  fingers  under 
the  collar.  "  Suthin'  got  ketched  in  here,"  he  said, 
unbuckling  the  strap.  Tied  inside  the  collar  was 
a  folded  piece  of  paper.  Sundown  was  about  to 
throw  it  away  when  he  reconsidered  and  unfolded 
it.  In  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire  he  spread  the 
paper  and  read  laboriously:  - 

"  Chance  followed  me  to  the  Concho  because  I  made  him 
come.  He  showed  that  he  did  n't  want  to  stay.  I  let  him 
go.  If  he  gets  back  to  you,  keep  him.  He  is  yours. 

"JOHN  CORLISS." 

Sundown  folded  the  note  and  carefully  tucked 
it  in  his  pocket.  He  rose  and  slapped  his  chest 
grandiloquently.  "Chance,  ole  pal,"  he  said 
with  a  brave  gesture,  "you're  mine!  Got  the 
dockyments  to  show.  What  do  you  think?" 

Chance,  with  mouth  open  and  lolling  tongue, 
seemed  to  be  laughing. 

Sundown  reached  out  his  long  arm  as  one  who 
greets  a  friend. 

The  dog  extended  his  muscular  fore  leg  and 
solemnly  placed  his  paw  in  Sundown's  hand.  No 
document  was  required  to  substantiate  his  al- 
legiance to  his  new  master,  nor  his  new  master's 
title  to  ownership.  Despite  genealogy,  each  was 
in  his  way  a  thoroughbred. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SUNDOWN,    VAQUERO 

THE  strenuous  days  of  the  round-up  were  over. 
Bands  of  riders  departed  for  their  distant  ranches 
leaving  a  few  of  their  number  to  ride  line  and  in- 
cidentally to  keep  a  vigilant  eye  on  the  sheep- 
camps. 

David  Loring,  realizing  that  he  had  been 
checkmated  in  the  first  move  of  the  game  in 
which  cattle  and  sheep  were  the  pawns  and  cow- 
boys and  herders  the  castles,  knights,  and, 
stretching  the  metaphor  a  bit,  bishops,  tacitly 
admitted  defeat  and  employed  a  diagonal  to 
draw  the  cattle-men's  forces  elsewhere.  He  de- 
termined to  locate  on  the  abandoned  water-hole 
ranch,  homestead  it,  and,  by  so  doing,  cut  off  the 
supply  of  water  necessary  to  the  cattle  on  the 
west  side  of  the  Concho  River.  This  would  be 
entering  the  enemy's  territory  with  a  vengeance, 
yet  there  was  no  law  prohibiting  his  homestead- 
ing  the  ranch,  the  title  of  which  had  reverted  to 
the  Government.  Too  shrewd  to  risk  legal  en- 
tanglement by  placing  one  of  his  employees  on 
the  homestead,  he  decided  to  have  his  daughter 
file  application,  and  nothing  forbade  her  employ- 

149 


Sundown  Slim 

ing  whom  she  chose  to  do  the  necessary  work  to 
prove  up.  The  plan  appealed  to  the  girl  for  vari- 
ous reasons,  one  of  which  was  that  she  might,  by 
her  presence,  avert  the  long -threatened  war  be- 
tween the  two  factions. 

Sundown  and,  indirectly,  Fadeaway  precipi- 
tated the  impending  trouble.  Fadeaway,  riding 
for  the  Blue,  was  left  with  a  companion  to  ride 
line  on  the  mesas.  Sundown,  although  very 
much  unlike  Othello,  found  that  his  occupation 
was  gone.  Assistant  cooks  were  a  drug  on  the 
range.  He  was  equipped  with  a  better  horse,  a 
rope,  quirt,  slicker,  and  instructions  to  cover 
daily  a  strip  of  territory  between  the  Concho  and 
the  sheep-camps.  He  became  in  fact  an  itinerant 
patrol,  his  mere  physical  presence  on  the  line  be- 
ing all  that  was  required  of  him. 

It  was  the  Seiiora  Loring  who  drove  to  the 
Concho  one  morning  and  was  welcomed  by  Cor- 
liss to  whom  she  gave  the  little  sack  of  gold. 
She  told  him  all  that  he  wished  to  know  in  re- 
gard to  his  brother  Will,  pleading  for  him  with 
motherly  gentleness.  Corliss  assured  her  that  he 
felt  no  anger  toward  his  brother,  but  rather  so- 
licitude, and  made  her  happy  by  his  generous 
attitude  toward  the  wrongdoer.  He  had  already 
heard  that  his  brother  had  driven  to  Antelope 
and  taken  the  train  for  the  West.  His  great  regret 

150 


Sundown,  Vaquero 

was  that  Will  had  not  written  to  him  or  come  to 
him  directly,  instead  of  leaving  to  the  good 
Senora  the  task  of  explanation.  "Never  figured 
that  repenting  by  proxy  was  the  best  plan,"  he 
told  the  Senora.  "But  he  could  n't  have  chosen  a 
better  proxy."  At  which  she  smiled,  and  in  de- 
parting blessed  him  in  her  sincere  and  simple 
manner,  assuring  him  in  turn  that  should  the 
sheep  and  cattle  ever  come  to  an  understanding 
—  the  Spanish  for  which  embraced  the  larger 
aspect  of  the  problem  —  there  was  nothing  she 
desired  or  prayed  for  more  than  the  friendship 
and  presence  of  Corliss  at  the  Loring  hacienda. 
Corliss  drew  his  own  inference  from  this,  which 
was  a  pleasant  one.  He  felt  that  he  had  a  friend 
at  court,  yet  explained  humorously  that  sheep 
and  cattle  were  not  by  nature  fitted  to  occupy 
the  same  territory.  He  was  alive  to  sentiment, 
but  more  keen  than  ever  to  maintain  his  position 
unalterably  so  far  as  business  was  concerned. 
The  Senora  liked  him  none  the  less  for  this.  To 
her  he  was  a  man  who  stood  straight,  on  both 
feet,  and  faced  the  sun.  Her  daughter  Nell  .  .  . 
Ah,  the  big  Juan  Corliss  has  such  a  fine  way  with 
him  .  .  .  what  a  husband  for  any  woman!  In 
the  mean  time  .  .  .  only  thoughts,  hopes  were 
possible  .  .  .  yet  ,  .  .  manana  .  .  .  manana 
.  .  .  there  was  always  to-morrow  that  would  be 
a  brighter  day. 

151 


Sundown  Slim 

To  say  that  Sundown  was  proud  of  his  unac- 
customed regalia  from  the  crown  of  his  lofty 
Stetson  to  the  soles  of  his  high-heeled  riding- 
boots,  would  be  putting  it  mildly.  To  say  that 
he  was  especially  useful  in  his  new  calling  as 
vaquero  would  not  be  to  put  it  so  mildly.  Under 
the  more  or  less  profane  tutelage  of  his  com- 
panions, he  learned  to  throw  a  rope  after  a  fash- 
ion, taking  the  laughing  sallies  of  his  'comrades 
good-naturedly.  He  persevered.  He  was  forever 
stealing  upon  some  maternal  and  unsuspicious 
cow  and  launching  his  rope  at  her  with  a  wild 
shout  —  possibly  as  an  anticipatory  expression  of 
fear  in  case  his  rope  should  fall  true.  More  than 
once  he  had  been  yanked  bodily  from  the  saddle 
and  had  arisen  to  find  himself  minus  rope,  cow, 
and  pony,  for  no  self-respecting  cow-horse  could 
watch  Sundown's  unprecedented  evolutions  and 
not  depart  thitherward,  feeling  ashamed  and 
grieved  to  think  that  he  had  ever  lived  to  be  a 
horse.  And  Sundown,  despite  his  length  of  limb, 
seemed  unbreakable.  "He's  the  most  durable 
rider  on  the  range,"  remarked  Hi  Wingle,  in- 
cident to  one  of  his  late  assistant's  meteoric  de- 
partures from  the  saddle.  "He  wears  good." 

One  morning  as  Sundown  was  jogging  along, 
engaged  chiefly  in  watching  his  shadow  bob  up 
and  down  across  the  wavering  bunch-grass,  he 
saw  that  which  appeared  to  be  the  back  of  a  cow 

152 


Sundown,  Vaquero 

just  over  a  rise.  He  walked  his  horse  to  the  rise 
and  for  some  fantastic  reason  decided  to  rope  the 
cow.  He  swung  his  rope.  It  fell  true  —  in  fact, 
too  true,  for  it  encircled  the  animal's  neck  and 
looped  tight  just  where  the  neck  joins  the  shoul- 
ders. He  took  a  turn  of  the  rope  around  the  saddle 
horn.  At  last  he  had  mastered  the  knack  of  the 
thing!  Why,  it  was  as  easy  as  rolling  pie-crust! 
He  was  about  to  wonder  what  he  was  going  to  do 
next,  when  the  cow  —  which  happened  to  be  a 
large  and  active  steer  —  humped  itself  and  de- 
parted for  realms  unknown. 

With  the  perversity  of  inanimate  objects  the 
rope  flipped  in  a  loop  around  Sundown's  foot. 
The  horse  bucked,  just  once,  and  Sundown  was 
launched  on  a  new  and  promising  career.  The 
ground  shot  beneath  him.  He  clutched  wildly  at 
the  bunch-grass,  secured  some,  and  took  it  along 
with  him.  Chance,  who  always  accompanied 
Sundown,  raced  alongside,  enjoying  the  novelty 
of  the  thing.  He  barked  and  then  shot  ahead, 
nipping  at  the  steer's  heels,  and  this  did  not  add 
to  his  master's  prospects  of  ultimate  survival. 
Sundown  shouted  for  help  when  he  could,  which 
was  not  often.  Startled  prairie-dogs  disappeared 
in  their  holes  as  the  mad  trio  shot  past.  The  steer, 
becoming  warmed  up  to  his  work,  paid  little  at- 
tention to  direction  and  much  to  speed.  That  a 
band  of  sheep  were  grazing  ahead  made  no  differ- 

153 


Sundown  Slim 

ence  to  the  charging  steer.  He  plunged  into  the 
band.  Sundown  dimly  saw  a  sea  of  sheep  surge 
around  him  and  break  in  storm-tossed  waves  of 
wool  on  either  side.  He  heard  some  one  shout. 
Then  he  fainted. 

When  he  again  beheld  the  sun,  a  girl  was  kr eel- 
ing  beside  him,  a  girl  with  dark,  troubled  eyes. 
She  offered  him  wine  from  a  wicker  jug.  He 
drank  and  felt  better. 

"Are  you  hurt  badly?"  she  asked. 

"Am  —  I  —  all  here?"  queried  Sundown. 

"I  guess  so.  You  seem  to  be." 

"Was  anybody  else  killed  in  the  wreck?" 

The  girl  smiled.  "  You  're  feeling  better.  Let 
me  help  you  to  sit  up." 

Sundown  for  the  moment  felt  disinclined  to 
move.  He  was  in  fact  pretty  thoroughly  used  up. 
"Say,  did  he  win?"  he  queried  finally. 

"Who?" 

"Me  dog,  Chance.  I  got  the  start  at  first,  but 
he  kind  of  got  ahead  for  a  spell." 

"I  don't  know.  Chance  is  right  behind  you. 
He's  out  of  breath." 

"Huh!  Reckon  I'm  out  more 'n  that.  He's 
in  luck  this  trip." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"That's  what  I'm  wonderin',  lady.  And  say, 
would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  which  way  is 
north?" 

154 


Sundown,  Vaquero 

Despite  her  solicitude  for  the  recumbent  Sun- 
down, Eleanor  Loring  laughed.  "You  are  in  one 
of  the  sheep-camps.  I'm  Eleanor  Loring." 

"Sheep-camp?  Gee  Gosh!  Did  you  stop  me?" 

"Yes.  I  was  just  riding  into  camp  when  you 
—  er  —  arrived.  I  headed  the  steer  back  and 
Fernando  cut  the  rope." 

"Thanks,  miss.  And  Fernando  is  wise  to  his 
business,  all  right." 

"Can  you  sit  up  now?"  she  asked. 

"Ow!  I  guess  I  can.  That  part  of  me  was  n't 
expectin'  to  be  moved  sudden-like.  How'd  I  get 
under  these  trees?" 

"Fernando  carried  you." 

"Well,  little  old  Fernando  is  some  carrier. 
Where  is  he?  I  would  n't  mind  shakin'  hands 
with  that  gent." 

"He's  out  after  the  sheep.  The  steer  stam- 
peded them." 

"Well,  miss,  speakin'  from  me  heart  —  that 
there  steer  was  no  lady.  I  thought  she  was  till  I 
roped  him.  I  was  mistook  serious." 

"He  might  have  killed  you.  Let  me  help  you 
up." 

Sundown  had  been  endeavoring  to  get  to  his 
feet.  Finally  he  rose  and  leaned  against  a  tree. 
Fortunately  for  him  his  course  had  been  over  a 
stretch  of  yielding  bunch-grass,  and  not,  as  might 
have  been  the  case,  over  the  ragged  tufa.  As  it 

155 


Sundown  Slim 

was  his  shirt  hung  from  his  back  in  shreds,  and 
he  felt  that  his  overalls  were  not  all  that  their 
name  implied.  The  numbness  of  his  abrasions 
and  bruises  was  wearing  off.  The  pain  quickened 
his  senses.  He  realized  that  his  hat  was  missing, 
that  one  spur  was  gone  and  the  other  was  half- 
way up  his  leg.  He  was  not  pleased  with  his  ap- 
pearance, and  determined  to  "make  a  slope"  as 
gracefully  and  as  quickly  as  circumstances  would 
permit. 

Chance,  gnawing  at  a  burr  that  had  stuck  be- 
tween his  toes,  saw  his  master  rise.  He  leaped 
toward  Sundown  and  stood  waiting  for  more 
fun. 

"Chance  seems  all  right  now,"  said  the  girl, 
patting  the  dog's  head. 

"John  Corliss  give  him  to  me,  miss.  He's  my 
dog  now.  Yes,  he's  active  all  right,  'specially 
chasin'  steers." 

"I  remember  you.  You're  the  man  that  car- 
ried Chance  up  the  canon  trail  that  day  when  he 
was  hurt." 

"Yes,  miss.   He  ain't  forgettin'  either." 

The  girl  studied  Sundown's  lean  face  as  he 
gazed  across  the  mesas,  wondering  how  he  was 
going  to  make  his  exit  without  calling  undue  at- 
tention to  his  dearth  of  raiment.  She  had  heard 
that  this  man,  this  queer,  ungainly  outlander, 
had  been  companion  to  Will  Corliss.  She  had 

156 


Sundown,  Vaquero 

also  heard  that  Sundown  had  been  injured  when 
the  robbery  occurred.  Pensively  she  drew  her 
empty  gauntlet  through  her  fingers. 

"Do  you  know  who  took  the  money  —  that 
night?"  she  asked  suddenly,  and  Sundown 
straightened  and  gazed  at  her. 

He  blinked  and  coughed.  "Bein'  no  hand  to 
lie  to  a  lady,  I  do,"  he  said,  simply.  "But  I  can't 
tell,  even  if  you  did  save  me  life  from  that  there 
steer." 

She  bit  her  lips,  and  nodded.  "I  did  n't  really 
mean  to  ask.  I  was  curious  to  know.  Won't  you 
take  my  horse?  You  can  send  him  back  to- 
morrow." 

"And  you  beat  it  home  afoot?  Say,  lady,  I 
mebby  been  a  Bo  onct,  but  I  ain't  hurt  that  bad. 
If  I  can't  find  me  trail  back  to  where  I  started 
from,  it  won't  be  because  it  ain't  there.  Thanks, 
jest  the  same." 

Sundown  essayed  a  step,  halted  and  groaned. 
He  felt  of  himself  gingerly.  He  did  not  seem  to 
be  injured  in  any  special  place,  as  he  ached 
equally  all  over.  "I'll  be  goin',  lady.  I  say 
thanks  for  savin'  me  life." 

The  girl  smiled  and  nodded.  "Will  you  please 
tell  Mr.  Corliss  that  I  should  like  to  see  him,  to- 
morrow, at  Fernando's  camp?  I  think  he'll  un- 
derstand." 

"Sure,  miss!  I'll  tell  him.  That  Fernando 
157 


Sundown  Slim 

man  looks  to  be  bavin'  some  trouble  with  them 
sheep." 

The  girl  glanced  toward  the  mesa.  Fernando 
and  his  assistant  were  herding  the  sheep  closer, 
and  despite  their  activity  were  really  getting  the 
frightened  animals  bunched  well.  When  she 
turned  again  Sundown  had  disappeared. 

Sundown's  arrival  in  camp,  on  foot,  was  not  al- 
together unexpected.  One  of  the  men  had  seen  a 
riderless  horse  grazing  on  the  mesa,  and  had 
ridden  out  and  caught  it.  Circumstantial  evi- 
dence —  rider  and  rope  missing  —  confirmed  Hi 
Wingle's  remark  that "  that  there  walkin'  clothes- 
pin has  probably  roped  somethin'  at  last."  And 
the  "walking  clothes-pin's"  condition  when  he 
appeared  seemed  to  substantiate  the  cook's  theory. 

"Lose  your  rope?"  queried  Wingle  as  Sun- 
down limped  up. 

"Uhuh.  And  that  ain't  all.  You  ain't  got  a 
pair  of  pants  that  ain't  workin',  have  you?" 

Wingle  smiled.  "Pants?  Think  this  here's  a 
Jew  clothin'-store?" 

"Nope,   But  if  she  was  a  horsepital  now  — " 

"Been  visitin'?" 

"Uhuh.  I  jest  run  over  to  see  some  friends  of 
mine  in  a  sheep-camp." 

"Did,  eh?  And  mebby  you  can  tell  me  what 
you  run  over?" 

158 


Sundown,  Vaquero 

"'Most  everything  out  there,"  said  Sundown, 
pointing  to  the  mesa.  "Say,  you  ain't  got  any  of 
that  plaster  like  they  put  on  a  guy's  head  when 
he  gets  hit  with  a  brick?" 

"Nope.  But  I  got  salt." 

"And  pepper,"  concluded  Sundown  with  some 
sarcasm.  "Mebby  I  do  look  like  a  barbecue." 

"Straight,  Sun,  salt  and  water  is  mighty  heal- 
in'.  You  better  ride  over  to  the  Concho  and  get 
fixed  up." 

"Reckon  that  ain't  no  dream,  Hi.  Got  to  see 
the  boss,  anyhow." 

"Well,  ' anyhow'  is  correc'.  And,  say,  you 
want  to  see  him  first  and  tell  him  it 's  you.  Your 
hoss  is  tied  over  there.  Sinker  fetched  him  in." 

"Hoss?  Oh,  yes,  hoss!  My  hoss!  Uhuh!" 

With  this  somewhat  ambiguous  string  of  ejacu- 
lations Sundown  limped  toward  the  pony.  He 
turned  when  halfway  there  and  called  to  Wingle. 
"The  cattle  business  is  fine,  Hi,  fine,  but  between 
you  and  me  I  reckon  I  '11  invest  in  sheep.  A  fella 
is  like  to  live  longer." 

Wingle  stared  gravely  at  the  tall  and  tattered 
figure.  He  stared  gravely,  but  inwardly  he  shook 
with  laughter.  "Say,  Sun!"  he  managed  to  ex- 
claim finally,  "that  there  Nell  Loring  is  a  right 
fine  gal,  ain't  she?" 

"You  bet!" 

"And  Jack  ain't  the  worst  .  .  ."  Wingle  spat 
159 


Sundown  Slim 

and  chewed  ruminatively.    "No,  he  ain't  the 
worst,"  he  asserted  again. 

"I  dunno  what  that's  got  to  do  with  gettin' 
drug  sixteen  mile,"  said  Sundown.  "But,  any- 
how, you  're  right." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON   THE    TRAIL   TO    THE   BLUE 

IN  the  shade  of  the  forest  that  edged  the  mesa, 
and  just  back  of  Fernando's  camp,  a  Ranger 
trail  cuts  through  a  patch  of  quaking-asp  and 
meanders  through  the  heavy-timbered  land 
toward  the  Blue  range,  a  spruce-clad  ridge  of 
southern  hills.  Close  to  the  trail  two  saddle 
horses  were  tied. 

Fadeaway,  riding  toward  his  home  ranch  on 
the  "Blue,"  reined  up,  eyed  the  horses,  and 
grinned.  One  of  them  was  Chinook,  the  other 
Eleanor  Loring's  black-and-white  pinto,  Chal- 
lenge. The  cowboy  bent  in  his  saddle  and  peered 
through  the  aspens  toward  the  sheep-camp.  He 
saw  Corliss  and  Nell  Loring  standing  close  to- 
gether, evidently  discussing  something  of  more 
than  usual  import,  for  at  that  moment  John 
Corliss  had  raised  his  broad  Stetson  as  though 
bidding  farewell  to  the  girl,  but  she  had  caught 
his  arm  as  he  turned  and  was  clinging  to  him. 
Her  attitude  was  that  of  one  supplicating,  coax- 
ing, imploring.  Fadeaway,  with  a  vicious  twist 
to  his  mouth,  spat.  "The  cattle  business  and  the 
sheep  business  looks  like  they  was  goin'  into 

161 


Sundown  Slim 

partnership,"  he  muttered.  "Leave  it  to  a 
woman  to  fool  a  man  every  time.  And  him  per- 
tendin'  to  be  all  for  the  long-horns ! "  He  saw  the 
girl  turn  from  Corliss,  bury  her  face  in  her  arms, 
and  lean  against  the  tree  beneath  which  they  were 
standing.  Fadeaway  grinned.  "Women  are  all 
crooked,  when  they  want  to  be,"  he  remarked,  — 
"or  any  I  ever  knowed.  If  they  can't  work  a  guy 
by  talkin'  and  lovin',  then  they  take  to  cryin'." 

Just  then  Corliss  stepped  to  the  girl  and  put 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Again  she  turned  to 
him.  He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  while  he 
talked.  Fadeaway  could  see  her  lips  move,  evi- 
dently in  reply.  He  could  not  hear  what  was  be- 
ing said,  as  his  horse  was  restless,  fretting  and 
stamping.  The  saddle  creaked.  Fadeaway  jerked 
the  horse  up,  and  in  the  momentary  silence  he 
caught  the  word  "love." 

"Makes  me  sick!"  he  said,  spurring  forward. 
"'Love,'  eh?  Well,  mebby  my  little  idea  of  put- 
tin'  Billy  Corliss  in  wrong  did  n't  work,  but  I'll 
hand  Jack  a  jolt  that'll  make  him  think  of  some- 
thin'  else  besides  love,  one  of  these  fine  mornin's ! " 
And  the  cowboy  rode  on,  out  of  tune  with  the 
peace  and  beauty  of  his  surroundings,  his  whole 
being  centered  upon  making  trouble  for  a  man 
who  he  knew  in  his  heart  wished  him  no  ill,  and 
in  fact  had  all  but  forgotten  him  so  far  as  con- 
sidering him  either  as  an  enemy  or  a  friend. 

162 


On  the  Trail  to  the  Blue 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  swing  out  to  the  open 
of  the  mesa  near  the  edge  of  the  canon,  he  came 
upon  a  Mexican  boy  asleep  beneath  the  low 
branches  of  a  spruce.  Fadeaway  glanced  across 
the  mesa  and,  as  he  had  expected,  saw  a  band  of 
sheep  grazing  in  the  sunshine.  His  trail  ran  di- 
rectly toward  the  sheep.  Beyond  lay  the  canon. 
He  would  not  ride  around  a  herd  of  sheep  that 
blocked  his  trail,  not  if  he  knew  it!  As  he  drew 
nearer  the  sheep  they  bunched,  forcing  those 
ahead  to  move  on.  Fadeaway  glanced  back  at 
the  sleeping  boy,  then  set  spur  to  his  horse  and 
waved  his  sombrero.  The  sheep  broke  into  a  trot. 
He  rode  back  and  forth  behind  them  forcing 
them  toward  the  canon.  He  beat  upon  his  rolled 
slicker  with  his  quirt.  The  sound  frenzied  the 
sheep  and  they  leaped  forward.  Lambs,  trailing 
behind,  called  dolefully  to  the  plunging  ewes  that 
trampled  each  other  in  their  terror.  Again  the 
cowboy  glanced  back.  No  one  was  in  sight.  He 
wondered,  for  an  instant,  what  had  become  of 
Fernando,  for  he  knew  it  was  Fernando's  herd. 
He  shortened  rein  and  spurred  his  pony,  making 
him  rear.  The  sheep  plunged  ahead,  those  in 
front  swerving  as  they  came  to  the  canon's  brink. 
The  crowding  mass  behind  forced  them  on. 
Fadeaway  reined  up.  A  great  gray  wave  rolled 
over  the  cliff  and  disappeared  into  the  soundless 
chasm.  A  thousand  feet  below  lay  the  mangled 

163 


Sundown  Slim 

carcasses  of  some  five  hundred  sheep  and  lambs. 
A  scattered  few  of  the  band  had  turned  and  were 
trotting  aimlessly  along  the  edge  of  the  mesa. 
They  separated  as  the  rider  swept  up.  One  terror- 
stricken  lamb,  bleating  piteously,  hesitated  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  chasm.  Fadeaway  swung  his 
hat  and  laughed  as  the  little  creature  reared  and 
leaped  out  into  space.  There  had  been  but  little 
noise  —  an  occasional  frightened  bleat,  a  drum- 
ming of  hoofs  on  the  mesa,  and  they  were  swept 
from  sight. 

Fadeaway  reined  around  and  took  a  direct  line 
for  the  nearest  timber.  Halfway  across  the  open 
he  saw  the  Mexican  boy  running  toward  him.  He 
leaned  forward  in  the  saddle  and  hung  his  spurs 
in  his  pony's  sides.  A  quick  beat  of  hoofs  and  he 
was  within  the  shadow  of  the  forest.  The  next 
thing  was  to  avoid  pursuit.  He  changed  his 
course  and  rode  toward  the  heart  of  the  forest. 
He  would  take  an  old  and  untraveled  bridle- 
trail  to  the  Blue.  He  was  riding  in  a  rocky  hollow 
when  he  thought  he  heard  the  creak  of  saddle- 
leather.  He  glanced  back.  No  one  was  following 
him.  Farther  on  he  stopped.  He  was  certain  that 
he  had  again  heard  the  sound.  As  he  topped  the 
rise  he  saw  Corliss  riding  toward  him.  The 
rancher  had  evidently  swung  from  the  Concho 
trail  and  was  making  his  way  directly  toward 
the  unused  trail  which  Fadeaway  rode.  The  cow- 

164 


On  the  Trail  to  the  Blue 

boy  became  doubly  alert.  He  shifted  a  little  in 
the  saddle,  sitting  straight,  his  right  hand  resting 
easily  on  his  hip.  Corliss  drew  rein  and  they 
faced  each  other.  There  was  something  about 
the  rancher's  grim,  silent  attitude  that  warned 
Fadeaway. 

Yet  he  grinned  and  waved  a  greeting.  "  How ! " 
he  said,  as  though  he  were  meeting  an  old  friend. 

Corliss  nodded  briefly.  He  sat  gazing  at  Fade- 
away with  an  unreadable  expression. 

"Got  the  lock-jaw?"  queried  Fadeaway,  his 
pretended  heartiness  vanishing. 

Corliss  allowed  himself  to  smile,  a  very  little. 
"  You  better  ride  back  with  me,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Fadeaway  laughed.  "I'm  takin'  orders  from 
the  Blue,  these  days,"  he  said.  "Mebby  you  for- 
got." 

"No,  I  have  n't." 

"And  I'm  headed  for  the  Blue,"  continued  the 
cowboy.  "Goin'  my  way?" 

"You're  on  the  wrong  trail,"  asserted  Corliss. 
'You've  been  riding  the  wrong  trail  ever  since 
you  left  the  Concho." 

"Uhuh.  Well,  I  been  keepin'  clear  of  the  sheep 
camps,  at  that." 

"Don't  know  about  that,"  said  Corliss,  easily. 

Fadeaway  was  too  shrewd  to  have  recourse  to 
his  gun.  He  knew  that  Corliss  was  the  quicker 
man,  and  he  realized  that,  even  should  he  get  the 

165 


Sundown  Slim 

better  of  a  six-gun  argument,  the  ultimate  result 
would  be  outlawry  and  perhaps  death.  He 
wanted  to  get  away  from  that  steady,  heart- 
searching  gaze  that  held  him. 

"Sheep  business  is  lookin'  up,"  he  said,  with 
an  attempt  at  jocularity. 

"  We  '11  ride  back  and  have  a  talk  with  Loring," 
said  Corliss.  "Some  one  put  a  band  of  his  sheep 
into  the  canon,  not  two  hours  ago.  Maybe  you 
know  something  about  it." 

"Me?  What  you  dreamin',  anyhow?" 

"I'm  not.  It  looks  like  your  work." 

"So  you're  tryin'  to  hang  somethin'  onto  me, 
eh?  Well,  you  want  to  call  around  early — you're 
late." 

"No,  I'm  the  first  one  on  the  job.  Did  you 
stampede  Loring's  sheep?" 

"Did  I  stampede  the  love-makin'?"  sneered 
Fadeaway. 

Corliss  shortened  rein  and  drew  close  to  the 
cowboy. 

"Just  explain  that,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don'  know.  You  the  boss  of  creation?" 

Corliss's  lips  hardened.  He  let  his  quirt  slip 
butt-first  through  his  hand  and  grasped  the  lash. 
Fadeaway's  hand  slipped  to  his  holster.  Before 
he  could  pull  his  gun,  Corliss  swung  the  quirt. 
The  blow  caught  Fadeaway  just  below  the  brim 
of  his  hat.  He  wavered  and  grabbed  at  the  sad- 

166 


On  the  Trail  to  the  Blue 

die-horn.  As  Corliss  again  swung  his  quirt,  the 
cowboy  jerked  out  his  gun  and  brought  it  down 
on  the  rancher's  head.  Corliss  dropped  from  the 
saddle.  Fadeaway  rode  around  and  covered  him. 
Corliss's  hat  lay  a  few  feet  from  where  he  had 
fallen.  Beneath  his  head  a  dark  ooze  spread  a 
hand's-breadth  on  the  trail.  The  cowboy  dis- 
mounted and  bent  over  him.  "He's  sportin'  a 
dam'  good  hat,"  he  said,  "or  that  would  'a'  fixed 
him.  Guess  he'll  be  good  for  a  spell."  Then  he 
reached  for  his  stirrup,  mounted,  and  loped  up 
the  trail. 

Old  Fernando,  having  excused  himself  on  some 
pretext  when  Corliss  rode  into  the  camp  that 
morning,  returned  to  find  Corliss  gone  and  Nell 
Loring  strangely  grave  and  white.  She  nodded  as 
he  spoke  to  her  and  pointed  toward  the  mesa. 
"Carlos  —  is  out  —  looking  for  the  sheep,"  she 
said,  her  lips  trembling.  "He  says  some  one 
stampeded  them  —  run  them  into  the  canon." 

Fernando  called  upon  his  saints  and  cursed 
himself  for  his  negligence  in  leaving  his  son  with 
the  sheep.  Nell  Loring  spoke  to  him  quietly,  as- 
suring him  that  she  understood  why  he  had  ab- 
sented himself.  "It's  my  fault,  Fernando,  not 
yours.  The  patron  will  want  to  know  why  you 
were  away.  You  will  tell  him  that  John  Corliss 
came  to  your  camp;  that  you  thought  I  wanted 

167 


Sundown  Slim 

to  talk  with  him  alone.  Then  he  will  know  that 
it  was  my  fault.  I  '11  tell  him  when  I  get  back  to 
the  rancho." 

Fernando  straightened  his  wizened  frame.  "Si! 
As  the  Senorita  says,  I  shall  do.  But  first  I  go  to 
look.  Perhaps  the  patron  shall  not  know  that  the 
vaquero  Corlees  was  here  this  morning.  It  is  that 
I  ask  the  Senorita  to  say  nothing  to  the  patron 
until  I  look.  Is  it  that  you  will  do  this?" 

"What  can  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  yet  to  know.  Adios,  Senorita.  You  will 
remember  the  old  Fernando,  perhaps?" 

"But  you're  coming  back!  Oh!  it  was  terri- 
ble!" she  cried.  "I  rode  to  the  canon  and  looked 
down." 

Fernando  meanwhile  had  been  thinking  rap- 
idly. With  quaint  dignity  he  excused  himself  as 
he  departed  to  catch  up  one  of  the  burros,  which 
he  saddled  and  rode  out  to  where  his  son  was 
standing  near  the  canon.  The  boy  shrank  from 
him  as  he  accosted  him.  Fernando's  deep-set 
eyes  blazed  forth  the  anger  that  his  lips  im- 
prisoned. He  sent  the  boy  back  to  the  camp. 
Then  he  picked  up  the  tracks  of  a  horseman  on 
the  mesa,  followed  them  to  the  canon's  brink, 
glanced  down,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  again 
took  up  the  horseman's  trail  toward  the  forest. 
With  the  true  instinct  of  the  outlander,  he  rea- 
soned that  the  horseman  had  headed  for  the  old 

168 


On  the  Trail  to  the  Blue 

trail  to  the  Blue,  as  the  tracks  led  diagonally 
toward  the  south.  Finally  he  realized  that  he 
could  never  overtake  the  rider  by  following  the 
tracks,  so  he  dismounted  and  tied  his  burro.  He 
struck  toward  the  canon.  A  mile  above  him 
there  was  a  ford.  He  would  wait  there  and  see 
who  came.  He  made  his  perilous  way  down  a 
notch  in  the  cliff,  dropped  slowly  to  the  level  of 
the  stream,  and  followed  it  to  the  ford.  He 
searched  for  tracks  in  the  sun-baked  mud.  With 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  perhaps  of  anticipation,  he 
stepped  to  a  clump  of  cottonwoods  down  the 
stream  and  backed  within  them.  Scarcely  had  he 
crossed  himself  and  drawn  his  gun  from  its 
weather-blackened  holster,  when  he  heard  the 
click  of  shod  hoofs  on  the  trail.  He  stiffened  and 
his  eyes  gleamed  as  though  he  anticipated  some 
pleasant  prospect.  The  creases  at  the  corners  of 
his  eyes  deepened  as  he  recognized  in  the  rider  the 
vaquero  who  had  set  the  Concho  dog  upon  his 
sheep  some  months  before.  He  had  a  score  to 
settle  with  that  vaquero  for  having  shot  at  him. 
He  had  another  and  larger  score  to  settle  with 
him  for  —  no,  he  would  not  think  of  his  beloved 
sheep  mangled  and  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the 
canon.  That  would  anger  him  and  make  his  hand 
unsteady. 

Fadeaway  rode  his  horse  into  the  ford  and  sat 
looking  downstream  as  the  horse  drank.   Just  as 

169 


Sundown  Slim 

he  drew  rein,  the  old  herder  imitated  with  per- 
fect intonation  the  quavering  bleat  of  a  lamb 
calling  to  its  mother.  Fadeaway  jerked  straight 
in  the  saddle.  A  ball  of  smoke  puffed  from  the 
cottonwoods.  The  cowboy  doubled  up  and  slid 
headforemost  into  the  stream.  The  horse, 
startled  by  the  lunge  of  its  rider,  leaped  to  the 
bank  and  raced  up  the  trail.  A  diminishing  echo 
ran  along  the  canon  walls  and  rolled  away  to  dis- 
tant, faint  muttering.  Old  Fernando  had  paid 
his  debt  of  vengeance. 

Leisurely  he  broke  a  twig  from  the  cotton- 
woods,  tore  a  strip  from  his  bandanna,  and 
cleaned  his  gun.  Then  he  retraced  his  steps  to 
the  burro,  mounted,  and  rode  directly  to  his 
camp.  After  he  had  eaten  he  told  his  son  to  pack 
their  few  belongings.  Then  he  again  mounted 
the  burro  and  rode  toward  the  hacienda  to  face 
the  fury  of  the  patron. 

He  had  for  a  moment  left  the  flock  in  charge  of 
his  son.  He  had  returned  to  find  all  but  a  few  of 
the  sheep  gone.  He  had  tracked  them  to  the 
canon  brink.  Ah!  could  the  patron  have  seen 
them,  lying  mangled  upon  the  rocks !  It  had  been 
a  long  hard  climb  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon, 
else  he  should  have  reported  sooner.  Some  one 
had  driven  the  sheep  into  the  chasm.  As  to  the 
man  who  did  it,  he  knew  nothing.  There  were 
tracks  of  a  horse  —  that  was  all.  He  had  come  to 

170 


On  the  Trail  to  the  Blue 

report  and  receive  his  dismissal.  Never  again 
should  he  see  the  Senora  Loring.  He  had  been 
the  patron's  faithful  servant  for  many  years.  He 
was  disgraced,  and  would  be  dismissed  for  negli- 
gence. 

So  he  soliloquized  as  he  rode,  yet  he  was  not 
altogether  unhappy.  He  had  avenged  insult  and 
the  killing  of  his  beloved  sheep  with  one  little 
crook  of  his  finger;  a  thing  that  his  patron,  brave 
as  he  was,  would  not  dare  do.  He  would  return 
to  New  Mexico.  It  was  well! 


CHAPTER  XV 

THEY   KILLED   THE   BOSS! 

SUNDOWN,  much  to  his  dismay,  was  lost.  With 
a  sack  of  salt  tied  across  his  saddle,  he  had  rid- 
den out  that  morning  to  fill  one  of  the  salt-logs 
near  a  spring  where  the  cattle  came  to  drink.  He 
had  found  the  log,  filled  it,  and  had  turned  to  re- 
trace his  journey  when  a  flock  of  wild  turkeys 
strung  out  across  his  course.  His  horse,  from 
which  the  riders  of  the  Concho  had  aforetime 
shot  turkeys,  broke  into  a  kind  of  reminiscent 
lope,  which  quickened  as  the  turkeys  wheeled 
and  ran  swiftly  through  the  timberland.  Sun- 
down clung  to  the  saddle-horn  as  the  pony  took 
fallen  logs  at  top  speed.  The  turkeys  made  for  a 
rim  of  a  narrow  canon  and  from  it  sailed  off  into 
space,  leaving  Chance  a  disconsolate  spectator 
and  Sundown  sitting  his  horse  and  thanking  the 
Arizona  stars  that  his  steed  was  not  equipped 
with  wings.  It  was  then  that  he  realized  that 
the  Concho  ranch  might  be  in  any  one  of  the 
four  directions  he  chose  to  take.  He  wheeled 
the  horse,  slackened  rein,  and  allowed  that  sa- 
gacious but  apparently  disinterested  animal  to 
pick  its  leisurely  way  through  the  forest.  Chance 

172 


They  Killed  the  Boss! 

trotted  sullenly  behind.  He  could  have  told  his 
master  something  about  hunting  turkeys  had  he 
been  able  to  speak,  and,  judging  from  the  dog's 
dejected  stride  and  expression,  speech  would 
have  been  a  relief  to  his  feelings. 

The  horse,  nipping  at  scant  shoots  of  bunch- 
grass  and  the  blue-flowered  patches  of  wild  peas, 
gravitated  toward  the  old  trail  to  the  Blue  and, 
once  upon  it,  turned  toward  home.  Chance,  re- 
freshing his  memory  of  the  old  trail,  ran  ahead, 
pausing  at  this  fallen  log  and  that  fungus-spotted 
stump  to  investigate  squirrel-holes  with  much 
sniffing  and  circling  of  the  immediate  territory. 
Sundown  imagined  that  Chance  was  leading  the 
way  toward  home,  though  in  reality  the  dog  was 
merely  killing  time,  so  to  speak,  while  the  pony 
plodded  deliberately  down  the  homeward  trail. 

Dawdling  along  in  the  barred  sunshine,  at 
peace  with  himself  and  the  pleasant  solitudes, 
Sundown  relaxed  and  fell  to  dreaming  of  Anda- 
lusian  castles  builded  in  far  forests  of  the  south, 
and  of  some  Spanish  Penelope  —  possibly  not 
unlike  the  Senorita  Loring  —  who  waited  his 
coming  with  patient  tears  and  rare  fidelity. 
"Them  there  true-be-doors,"  he  muttered,  "like 
Billy  used  to  say,  sure  had  the  glad  job  —  singin' 
and  wrastlin'  out  po'try  galore!  A  singin'-man 
sure  gets  the  ladies.  Now  if  I  was  to  take  on  a 
little  weight,  —  mebby  .  .  .  '  His  weird  solilo- 

173 


Sundown  Slim 

quy  was  broken  by  a  sharp  and  excited  bark. 
Chance  was  standing  in  the  trail,  and  beyond 
him  there  was  something  .  .  . 

Sundown,  anticipating  more  turkeys,  slid 
from  his  horse  without  delay.  He  stalked  stealth- 
ily toward  the  quivering  dog.  Then,  dropping 
the  reins,  he  ran  to  Corliss,  knelt  beside  him,  and 
lifted  his  head.  He  called  to  him.  He  ripped  the 
rancher's  shirt  open  and  felt  over  his  heart. 
"They  killed  me  boss!  They  killed  me  boss!" 
he  wailed,  rising  and  striding  back  and  forth  in 
impotent  excitement  and  grief.  He  did  not  know 
where  to  look  for  water.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  A  sudden  fury  at  his  helplessness  over- 
came him,  and  he  mounted  and  rode  down  the 
trail  at  a  wild  gallop.  Fortunately  he  was 
headed  in  the  right  direction. 

Wingle,  Bud  Shoop,  and  several  of  the  men 
were  holding  a  heated  conference  with  old  man 
Loring  when  Sundown  dashed  into  the  Concho. 
Trembling  with  rage  and  fear  he  leaped  from  his 
horse. 

"They  killed  the  boss!"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"Up  there  —  in  the  woods." 

"Killed  who?  Where?  Slow  down  and  talk 
easy!  Who's  killed?"  volleyed  the  group. 

"Me  boss!  Up  there  on  the  trail  with  his 
head  bashed  in !  Chance  and  me  found  him  layin' 
on  the  trail." 

174 


They  Killed  the  Boss! 

The  men  swung  to  their  saddles.  "Better 
come  along,  Loring,"  said  Shoop,  riding  close  to 
the  old  sheep-man.  "  Looks  like  they  was  more  'n 
one  side  to  this  deal.  And  you,  too,  Sun." 

The  riders,  led  by  the  gesticulating  and  ex- 
cited Sundown,  swung  out  to  the  road  and 
crossed  to  the  forest.  Shoop  and  Hi  Wingle 
spurred  ahead  while  the  others  questioned 
Sundown,  following  easily.  When  they  arrived 
at  the  scene  of  the  fight,  Corliss  was  sitting 
propped  against  a  tree  with  Shoop  and  Wingle 
on  either  side  of  him.  Corliss  stared  stupidly 
at  the  men. 

"Who  done  it?"  asked  Wingle. 

"Fadeaway,"  murmured  the  rancher. 

Loring,  in  the  rear  of  the  group,  laughed  ironi- 
cally. 

Snoop's  gun  jumped  from  its  holster  and  cov- 
ered the  sheep-man.  "If  one  of  your  lousy  herd- 
ers done  this,  he'll  graze  clost  to  hell  to-night 
with  the  rest  of  your  dam'  sheep!"  he  cried. 

"Easy,  Bud!"  cautioned  Wingle.  "The  boss 
ain't  passed  over  yet.  Bill,  you  help  Sinker  here 
get  the  boss  back  home.  The  rest  of  you  boys  hit 
the  trail  for  the  Blue.  Fadeaway  is  like  to  be  up 
in  that  country." 

"Ante  up,  Loring!"  said  Shoop,  mounting  his 
horse.  "I'll  see  your  hand  if  it  takes  every  chip 
in  the  stack." 

175 


Sundown  Slim 

"Here,  too!"  chorused  the  riders.  "We're  all 
in  on  this." 

They  trailed  along  in  single  file  until  they  came 
to  the  ford.  They  reined  up  sharply.  One  of 
them  dismounted  and  dragged  the  body  of  Fade- 
away to  the  bank.  They  grouped  around  gazing 
at  the  hole  in  Fadeaway's  shirt. 

Shoop  turned  the  body  over.  "Got  it  from  in 
front,"  he  said,  which  was  obvious  to  their  ex- 
perienced eyes. 

"And  it  took  a  fast  gun  to  get  him,"  asserted 
Loring. 

The  men  were  silent,  each  visualizing  his  own 
theory  of  the  fight  on  the  trail  and  the  killing  of 
Fadeaway. 

"Jack  was  layin'  a  long  way  from  here,"  said 
Wingle. 

"When  you  found  him,"  commented  Loring. 

"Only  one  boss  crossed  the  ford  this  morning," 
announced  Shoop,  wading  across  the  stream. 

"And  Fade  got  it  from  in  front,"  commented  a 
puncher.  "His  tracks  is  headed  for  the  Blue." 

Again  the  men  were  silent.  Shoop  rolled  a  cig- 
arette. The  splutter  of  the  sulphur-match,  as  it 
burned  from  blue  to  yellow,  startled  them.  They 
relaxed,  cursing  off  their  nervous  tension  in 
monosyllables. 

"Well,  Fade's  played  his  stack,  and  lost.  Jack 
was  sure  in  the  game,  but  how  far  —  I  dunno. 

176 


They  Killed  the  Boss! 

Reckon  that's  got  anything  to  do  with  stam- 
pedin'  your  sheep?"  asked  Wingle,  turning  to 
Loring. 

Loring's  deep-set  eyes  flashed.  "Fernando  re- 
ported that  a  Concho  rider  done  the  job.  He 
did  n't  say  who  done  it." 

"Did  n't,  eh?  And  did  Fernando  say  any- 
thing about  doin'  a  job  himself?"  asked  Shoop. 

"If  you're  tryin'  to  hang  this  onto  any  of  my 
herders,  you're  ridin'  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
river.  I  reckon  you  won't  have  to  look  far  for  the 
gun  that  got  him."  And  Loring  gestured  toward 
the  body. 

Hi  Wingle  stooped  and  pulled  Fadeaway's  gun 
from  its  holster.  He  spun  the  cylinder,  swung  it 
out,  and  invited  general  inspection.  "Fade 
never  had  a  chance,"  he  said,  lowering  the  gun. 
"They 's  six  pills  in  her  yet.  You  got  to  show  me 
he  was  n't  plugged  from  behind  a  rock  or  them 
bushes."  And  Wingle  pointed  toward  the  cot- 
tonwoods. 

One  of  the  men  rode  down  the  canon,  search- 
ing for  tracks.  Chance,  following,  circled  the 
bushes,  and  suddenly  set  off  toward  the  north. 

Sundown,  who  had  been  watching  him,  dis- 
mounted his  horse.  "  Chance,  there,  mebby  he 's 
found  somethinV 

"Well,  he's  your  dog.  Go  ahead  if  you  like. 
Mebby  Chance  struck  a  scent." 

177 


Sundown  Slim 

"Coyote  or  lion,"  said  Wingle.  "They  ain't 
no  trail  down  them  rocks." 

Sundown,  following  Chance,  disappeared  in 
the  canon.  The  men  covered  Fadeaway's  body 
with  a  slicker  and  weighted  it  with  stones.  Then 
they  sent  a  puncher  to  Antelope  to  notify  the 
sheriff. 

As  they  rode  into  the  Concho,  they  saw  that 
Corliss's  horse  was  in  the  corral.  Their  first 
anger  had  cooled,  yet  they  gazed  sullenly  at 
Loring.  They  were  dissatisfied  with  his  interpre- 
tation of  the  killing  and  not  a  little  puzzled. 

"Where's  Fernando?"  queried  Shoop  aggres- 
sively. 

Loring  put  the  question  aside  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand.  "Jest  a  minute  afore  I  go.  You're 
tryin'  to  hang  this  onto  me  or  mine.  You're 
wrong.  You're  forgettin'  they's  five  hundred  of 
my  sheep  at  the  bottom  of  the  Concho  Canon,  I 
guess.  They  did  n't  get  there  by  themselves. 
Fadeaway's  got  his,  which  was  comin'  to  him 
this  long  time.  That's  nothin'  to  me.  What  I 
want  to  see  is  Jack  Corliss's  gun." 

Bud  Shoop  stepped  into  the  ranch-house  and 
presently  returned  with  the  Colt's.  "Here  she 
is.  Take  a  look." 

The  old  sheep-man  swung  out  the  cylinder  and 
pointed  with  a  gnarled  and  horny  finger.  The 

178 


They  Killed  the  Boss! 

men  closed  in  and  gazed  in  silence.  One  of  the 
shells  was  empty. 

Loring  handed  the  gun  to  Shoop.  "I'll  ask 
Jack,"  said  the  foreman.  When  he  returned  to 
the  group  he  was  unusually  grave.  "Says  he 
plugged  a  coyote  this  mornin'." 

Loring's  seamed  and  weathered  face  was  ex- 
pressionless. "  Well,  he  did  a  good  job,  if  I  do  say 
it,"  he  remarked,  as  though  to  himself. 

"Which?"  queried  Shoop. 

"I  don't  say,"  replied  Loring.  "I'm  lettin' 
the  evidence  do  the  talkin'." 

"Well,  you'll  hear  her  holler  before  we  get 
through ! "  asserted  the  irrepressible  Bud.  "Fade, 
mebby,  wa'n't  no  lady's  man,  but  he  had  sand. 
He  was  a  puncher  from  the  ground  up,  and  we 
ain't  forgettin' that!" 

"And  I  ain't  forgettin'  them  five  hundred 
sheep."  Loring  reined  around.  "And  you're 
goin'  to  hear  from  me  right  soon.  I  reckon  they 's 
law  in  this  country." 

"Let  her  come!"  retorted  Shoop.  "We'll  all 
be  here!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SUNDOWN   ADVENTURES 

BY  dint  of  perilous  scrambling  Sundown  man- 
aged to  keep  within  sight  of  Chance,  who  had 
picked  up  Fernando's  tracks  leading  from  the 
cottonwoods.  The  dog  leaped  over  rocks  and 
trotted  along  the  levels,  sniffing  until  he  came  to 
the  rift  in  the  canon  wall  down  which  the  herder 
had  toiled  on  his  grewsome  errand.  Chance 
climbed  the  sharp  ascent  with  clawing  reaches  of 
his  powerful  forelegs  and  quick  thrusts  of  his 
muscular  haunches.  Sundown  followed  as  best  he 
could.  He  was  keyed  to  the  strenuous  task  by 
that  spurious  by-product  of  anticipation  fre- 
quenty  termed  a  " hunch." 

When  the  dog  at  last  reached  the  edge  of  the 
timber  and  dashed  into  Fernando's  deserted 
camp,  Sundown  was  puzzled  until  he  happened 
to  recall  the  incidents  leading  to  Fadeaway's 
discharge  from  the  Concho.  He  reclined  be- 
neath a  tree  familiar  to  him  as  a  former  basis 
for  recuperation.  He  felt  of  himself  reminis- 
cently  while  watching  Chance  nose  about  the 
camp.  Presently  the  dog  came  and,  squatting 
on  his  haunches,  faced  his  master  with  the 

180 


Sundown  Adventures 

query,  "What  next?"  scintillating  in  his  glow- 
ing eyes. 

"  I  dunno,"  replied  Sundown.  "  You  see,  pard- 
ner,  this  here's  Fernando's  camp  all  right.  Now, 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in'  that  little  ole  Fernando 
man,  'specially  as  it  was  him  cut  the  rope  that 
was  snakin'  me  to  glory  onct.  I  ain't  got  nothin' 
ag'in'  him,  or  nobody.  Mebby  Fade  did  set  after 
them  sheep.  Mebby  Fernando  knows  it  and  sets 
after  him.  Mebby  he  squats  in  them  cotton- 
woods  by  the  ford  and  'Pom!'  goes  somethin' 
and  pore  Fadeaway  sure  makes  his  name  good. 
Never  did  like  him,  but  I  ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in' 
him  now.  You  see,  Chance,  he 's  quit  bein'  mean, 
now.  And  say,  gettin'  killed  ain't  no  dream.  I 
been  there  three,  four  times  myself  —  all  but  the 
singin'.  Two  wrecks,  one  shootin',  and  one  can 
o'  beans  that  was  sick.  It  sure  ain't  no  fun. 
Wonder  if  gettin'  killed  that  way  will  square 
Fade  with  the  Big  Boss  over  there?  I  reckon  not. 
'T  ain't  what  a  fella  gets  done  to  him  that  counts. 
It's  what  he  does  to  the  other  guy,  good  or  bad. 
Now,  take  them  martyrs  what  my  pal  Billy 
used  to  talk  about.  They  was  always  standin' 
'round  gettin'  burned  and  punctured  with  arrers, 
and  lengthened  out  and  shortened  up  when  they 
ought  to  been  takin'  boxin'  lessons  or  sords  or 
somethin'.  Huh!  I  never  took  much  stock  in 
them.  If  it's  what  a  fella  gets  done  to  him,  it's 

181 


Sundown  Slim 

easy  money  I'll  be  takin'  tickets  at  the  gate  in- 
stead of  crawlin'  under  the  canvas  —  and  mebby 
tryin'  to  sneak  you  in,  too  —  eh,  Chance?" 

To  all  of  which  the  great  wolf-dog  listened 
with  exemplary  patience.  He  would  have  pre- 
ferred action,  but  not  unlike  many  human  beings 
who  strive  to  appear  profound  under  a  broadside 
of  philosophical  eloquence,  applauding  each 
bursting  shrapnel  of  platitudes  by  mentally  wag- 
ging their  tails,  Chance  wagged  his  tail,  impressed 
more  by  the  detonation  than  the  substance.  And 
Chance  was  quite  a  superior  dog,  as  dogs  go. 

When  Sundown  finally  arrived  at  the  Concho, 
he  was  met  by  Bud  Shoop,  who  questioned  him. 
Sundown  gave  a  detailed  account  of  his  recent 
exploration. 

"You  say  they  was  no  burros  at  the  camp  — 
no  tarp,  or  grub,  or  nothin'?" 

"Nope.  Nothin'  but  a  dead  fire,"  replied  Sun- 
down. 

"Any  sheep?" 

"Mebby  four  or  five.   Did  n't  count  'em." 

"Huh!  Wonder  where  the  rest  of  the  greaser's 
herd  is  grazin'?" 

"I  dunno.   I  rode  straight  acrost  to  here." 

"Looks  mighty  queer  to  me,"  commented  the 
foreman.  "I  take  it  that  Fernando 's  lit  out." 

"Will  they  pinch  the  boss?"  queried  Sun- 
down. 

182 


Sundown  Adventures 

"I  don'  know.  Anyhow,  they  can't  prove  it  on 
him.  Even  if  Jack  did  —  and  I  don't  mind  sayin' 
it  to  you  —  plug  Fade,  he  did  it  to  keep  from 
gettin'  plugged  hisself.  Do  you  reckon  I'd  let 
any  fella  chloroform  me  with  the  butt  of  a  .45  and 
not  turn  loose?  I  tell  you,  if  Jack  had  been  a- 
goin'  to  get  Fade  right,  you'd  'a'  found  'em  clos- 
ter  together.  And  that  ain't  all.  If  Jack  had 
wanted  to  get  Fade,  you  can  bet  he  would  n't  got 
walloped  on  the  head  first.  The  gun  that  got 
Fade  weren't  packed  by  a  puncher." 

"Will  they  be  any  more  shootin'?"  queried 
Sundown. 

"Gettin' cold  feet,  Sun?" 

"  Nope.  But  say,  it  ain't  no  fun  to  get  shot  up. 
It  don't  feel  good  and  it's  like  to  make  a  guy 
cross.  A  guy  can't  make  pie  or  eat  pie  all  shot 
up,  nohow." 

"Pie?  You  sure  are  loco.  What  you  tryin' to 
rope  now?" 

"Nothin'.  But  onct  I  was  in  the  repair  shop 
with  two  docs  explorin'  me  works  with  them  there 
shiny  little  corkscrews,  lookin'  for  a  bullit  that 
Clammie-the-dip  let  into  me  system  —  me  bein' 
mistook  for  another  friend  of  his  by  mistake. 
After  the  docs  dug  up  the  bullit  they  says,  'Any- 
thing you  want  to  say?'  —  expectin'  me  to  pass 
over,  I  reckon.  'There  is/  says  I.  *I  want  to 
say  that  I  ain't  et  nothin'  sense  the  day  before 

183 


Sundown  Slim 

Clammie  done  me  dirt.  An'  if  I  'm  goin'  to  hit  the 
slide  I  jest  as  soon  hit  it  full  of  pie  as  empty.' 
And  them  docs  commenced  to  laugh.  'Let  him 
have  it,'  says  one.  'But  don't  you  reckon  ice- 
cream would  be  less  apt  to  —  er  —  hasten  —  the 
—  er — '  jest  like  that.  'Pussuble  you  're  cor- 
rec','  says  the  other."  Sundown  scratched  his 
ear.  "And  I  et  the  ice-cream,  feelin'  kind  o'  sad- 
like  seein'  it  was  n't  pie.  You  see,  Bud,  gettin' 
shot  up  is  kind  of  disconvenient." 

"Well,  you're  the  limit!"  exclaimed  Shoop. 
"Say,  the  boss  wants  to  make  a  few  talks  to  you 
to-morrow.  Told  me  to  tell  you  when  you  come 
back.  You  better  go  feed  up.  As  I  recollec' Hi 's 
wrastlin'  out  some  pie-dough  right  now." 
"Well,  I  ain't  takin'  no  chances,  Bud." 
"You  tell  that  to  Hi  and  see  what  he  says." 
"Nope.  'T  ain't  necessary.  You  see  when 
them  docs  seen,  about  a  week  after,  that  I  was 
comin'  strong  instead  of  goin',  they  says,  'Me 
man,  if  you  'd  'a'  had  pie  in  your  stummick  when 
you  was  shot,  you  would  n't  be  here  to-day. 
You  'd  be  planted  —  or  somethin'  similar.  The 
f ac'  that  your  stummick  was  empty  evidentually 
saved  your  life.'  And,"  concluded  Sundown, 
"they's  no  use  temptin'  Providence  now." 

Shortly  after  breakfast  next  morning  Corliss 
sent  for  Sundown.   The  rancher  sat  propped  up 

184 


Sundown  Adventures 

in  a  wide  armchair.  He  was  pale,  but  his  eyes 
were  clear  and  steady. 

"Bud  told  me  about  yesterday,"  he  began,  an- 
ticipating Sundown's  leisurely  and  erratic  re- 
cital. "I  understand  you  found  me  on  the  trail 
and  went  for  help." 

"Yes.  I  thought  you  was  needin'  some  about 
then." 

"How  did  you  come  to  find  me?" 

"Got  lost.   Hoss  he  took  me  there." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  on  the  trail?" 

"Nope." 

"Hear  any  shooting?" 

"Nope.     But  I  seen  some  turkeys." 

"Well,  I  expect  the  sheriff  will  be  here  to- 
morrow. He  '11  want  to  talk  to  you.  Answer  him 
straight.  Don't  try  to  help  me  in  any  way.  Just 
tell  him  what  you  know  —  not  what  you  think." 

"I  sure  will,  boss.  Wish  Chance  could  talk. 
He  could  tell." 

Corliss  smiled  faintly.  "Yes,  I  suppose  he 
could.  You  followed  him  to  Fernando's  camp?" 

"Uhuh." 

"All  right.  Now,  I've  had  a  talk  with  Bud 
about  something  that  has  been  bothering  me.  I 
think  I  can  trust  you.  I  want  you  to  ride  to  An- 
telope to-morrow  morning  and  give  a  letter  from 
me  to  the  lawyer  there,  Kennedy.  He  '11  tell  you 
what  to  do  after  that.  I  don't  feel  like  talking 

185 


Sundown  Slim 

much,  but  I  '11  say  this:  You  remember  the  water- 
hole  ranch.  Well,  I  want  you  to  file  application 
to  homestead  it.  Kennedy  will  tell  you  what  to 
do.  Don't  ask  any  questions,  but  do  as  he  says. 
You'll  have  to  go  to  Usher  by  train  and  he'll  go 
with  you.  You  won't  lose  anything  by  it." 

"Me?  Homestead?  Huh!  And  have  cows  and 
pigs  and  things?  I  don't  jest  get  you,  boss,  but 
what  you  say  goes.  Why,  I'd  homestead  a  ranch 
in  hell  and  take  chances  on  findin'  water  if  you 
said  it.  Say,  boss,"  —  and  Sundown  leaned  to- 
ward Corliss  confidentially  and  lowered  his 
voice,  —  "I  ain't  what  you'd  call  a  nervy  man, 
but  say,  I  got  somethin'  jest  as  good.  I  —  I  — " 
and  Sundown  staggered  around  feeling  for  the 
word  he  wanted. 

"I  know.  We'll  look  it  up  in  the  dictionary 
some  day  when  we're  in  town.  Here's  ten  dol- 
lars for  your  trip.  If  you  need  more,  Kennedy 
will  give  it  to  you." 

Sundown  departed,  thrilled  with  the  thought 
that  his  employer  had  placed  so  much  confidence 
in  him.  He  wanted  to  write  a  poem,  but  circum- 
stances forbade  his  signaling  to  his  muse.  On  his 
way  to  the  bunk-house  he  hesitated  and  retraced 
his  steps  to  the  ranch  office.  Corliss  told  him  to 
come  in.  He  approached  his  employer  deferen- 
tially as  though  about  to  ask  a  favor. 

"Say,  boss,"  he  began,  "they's  two  things 
186 


Sundown  Adventures 

just  hit  me  to  onct.  Can  I  take  Chance  with 
me?" 

"If  you  like.  Part  of  your  trip  will  be  on  the 
train." 

"I  can  fix  that.  Then  I  was  thinkin':  No!  my 
hoss  is  lame.  I  got  to  ride  a  strange  boss,  which 
I'm  gettin'  kind  o'  used  to.  But  if  you'll  keep 
your  eye  on  my  hoss  while  I'm  gone,  it'll  ease  me 
mind  considerable.  You  see  he's  been  with  me 
reg'lar  and  ain't  learned  no  bad  tricks.  If  the 
boys  know  I'm  gone  and  get  to  learnin'  him 
about  buckin'  and  bitin'  the  arm  offen  a  guy  and 
kickin'  a  guy's  head  off  and  rollin'  on  him,  and 
rarin'  up  and  stompin'  him,  like  some,  they 's  no 
tellin'  what  might  happen  when  I  get  back." 

Corliss  laughed  outright.  "That's  so.  But  I 
guess  the  boys  will  be  busy  enough  without  mon- 
keying with  your  cayuse.  If  you  put  that  home- 
stead deal  through,  you  can  have  any  horse  on  the 
range  except  Chinook.  You  '11  need  a  team,  any- 
way, when  you  go  to  ranching." 

"Thanks,  boss,  but  I'm  gettin'  kind  of  used 
to  Pill." 

"Pill?  You  mean  Phil  —  Phil  Sheridan. 
That's  your  horse's  name." 

"Mebby.  I  did  try  callin' him 'Phil.'  It  went 
all  right  when  he  was  standin'  quiet.  But  when 
he  got  to  goin'  I  was  lucky  if  I  could  holler  just 
'Whoa,  Pill!'  The  'h'  got  jarred  loose  every 

187 


Sundown  Slim 

time.  'Course,  bein'  a  puncher  now,"  —  and 
Sundown  threw  out  his  chest,  --  "it's  different. 
Anyhow,  Pill  is  his  name  because  there  ain't  any- 
thing a  doc  ever  give  a  fella  that  can  stir  up  your 
insides  worse  'n  he  can  when  he  takes  a  spell. 
Your  head  hurtin'  much?" 

"No.  But  it  will  be  if  you  don't  get  out  of 
here."  And  Corliss  laughed  and  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   STRANGER 

SUNDOWN,  maintaining  a  mysterious  and  un- 
usual silence,  prepared  to  carry  out  his  employ- 
er's plans.  His  preparations  were  not  extensive. 
First,  he  polished  his  silver  spurs.  Then  he  bor- 
rowed a  coat  from  one  of  the  boys,  brushed  his 
Stetson,  and  with  the  business  instinct  of  a  He- 
brew offered  Hi  Wingle  nine  dollars  for  a  pair  of 
Texas  wing  chaps.  The  cook,  whose  active  rid- 
ing-days were  over,  had  no  use  for  the  chaps 
and  would  have  gladly  given  them  to  Sundown. 
The  latter's  offer  of  nine  dollars,  however,  inter- 
ested Wingle.  He  decided  to  have  a  bit  of  fun 
with  the  tall  one.  He  cared  nothing  for  the 
money,  but  wondered  why  Sundown  had  offered 
nine  dollars  instead  of  ten. 

"What  you  been  eatin'?"  he  queried  as  Sun- 
down made  his  bid.  "Goin'  courtin'?" 

"Nope,"  replied  the  lean  one.    "Goin'  east." 

"Huh!  Expect  to  ride  all  the  way  in  them 
chaps?" 

"Nope!  But  I  need  'em.  Heard  you  tell  Bud 
you  paid  ten  dollars  for  'em  'way  back  fifteen 
years.  Guess  they's  a  dollar's  worth  worn  off  of 
'em  by  now.*' 

189 


Sundown  Slim 

"Well,  you  sure  do  some  close  figurin'.  I  sure 
paid  ten  for  'em.  Got  'em  from  a  Chola  puncher 
what  was  hard  up.  Mebby  you  ain't  figurin' 
that  they 's  about  twenty  bucks'  worth  of  hand- 
worked silver  conchas  on  'em  which  ain't  wore 
off  any." 

Sundown  took  this  as  Wingle's  final  word. 
The  amused  Hi  noted  the  other's  disappointment 
and  determined  to  enhance  the  value  of  the  chaps 
by  making  them  difficult  to  obtain,  then  give 
them  to  his  assistant.  Wingle  liked  Sundown  in  a 
rough-shod  way,  though  Sundown  was  a  bit  too 
serious-minded  to  appreciate  the  fact. 

The  cook  assumed  the  air  of  one  gravely  con- 
cerned about  his  friend's  mental  balance.  "Some- 
thin'  sure  crawled  into  your  roost,  Sun,  but  if 
you're  goin'  crazy  I  suppose  a  pair  of  chaps 
won't  make  no  difference  either  way.  Anyhow, 
you  ain't  crazy  in  your  legs  —  just  your  head." 

"Thanks,  Hi.  It's  accommodatin'  of  you  to 
put  me  wise  to  myself.  I  know  I  ain't  so  durned 
smart  as  some." 

"Say,  you  old  fool,  can't  you  take  a  fall  to  it 
that  I  'm  joshin'?  You  sure  are  the  melancholiest 
stretch  of  bones  and  hide  I  ever  seen.  Somehow 
you  always  make  a  fella  come  down  to  cases 
every  time,  with  that  sad-lookin'  mug  of  yourn. 
You  sure  would  'a'  made  a  good  undertaker. 
I'll  get  them  chaps." 

190 


The  Stranger 

And  Wingle,  fat,  bald,  and  deliberate,  chuck- 
led as  he  dug  among  his  belongings  and  brought 
forth  the  coveted  riding  apparel.  "Them  chaps 
has  set  on  some  good  bosses,  if  I  do  say  it,"  he 
remarked.  "Take  'em  and  keep  your  nine  bucks 
for  life  insurance.  You'll  need  it." 

Sundown  grinned  like  a  boy.  "Nope.  A  bar- 
gain's  a  bargain.  Here's  the  money.  Mebbyyou 
could  buy  a  fust-class  cook-book  with  it  and 
learn  somethin'." 

"Learn  somethin'!  Why,  you  long-geared, 
double-jointed,  glass-eyed,  hay-topped,  star- 
smellin'  st-st-steeple,  you!  Get  out  o'  this  afore 
I  break  my  neck  tryin'  to  see  your  face!  Set 
down  so  I  can  look  you  in  the  eye!"  And  Wingle 
waved  his  stout  arms  and  glowered  in  mock  anger. 

Sundown  laid  the  money  on  the  table.  "Keep 
the  change,"  he  said  mildly  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

He  picked  up  the  chaps  and  stalked  from  the 
bunk-house.  Chance,  who  had  been  an  interested 
spectator  of  this  lively  exchange  of  compliment 
and  merchandise,  followed  his  master  to  the 
stable  where  Sundown  at  once  put  on  the  chaps 
and  strutted  for  the  dog's  benefit,  and  his  own. 
By  degrees  he  was  assuming  the  characteristics 
of  a  genuine  cow-puncher.  He  would  show  the 
folks  in  Antelope  what  a  rider  for  the  Concho 
looked  like. 

191 


Sundown  Slim 

The  following  morning,  much  earlier  than  ne- 
cessary, he  mounted  and  rode  to  the  bunk-house, 
where  Corliss  gave  him  the  letter  and  told  him  to 
leave  the  horse  at  the  stables  in  Antelope  until  he 
returned  from  Usher. 

Sundown,  stiffened  by  the  importance  of  his 
mission,  rode  straight  up,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left  until  the  Concho  was  far  be- 
hind him.  Then  he  slouched  in  the  saddle,  gazing 
with  a  pleased  expression  first  at  one  leather-clad 
leg  and  then  the  other.  For  a  time  the  wide,  free 
glory  of  the  Arizona  morning  mesas  was  forgot- 
ten. The  shadow  of  his  pony  walked  beside  him 
as  the  low  eastern  sun  burned  across  the  golden 
levels.  Long  silhouettes  of  fantastic  buttes 
spread  across  the  plain.  The  sky  was  cloudless 
and  the  crisp  thin  air  foretold  a  hot  noon.  The 
gaunt  rider's  face  beamed  with  an  inner  light  — 
the  light  of  romance.  What  more  could  a  man 
ask  than  a  good  horse,  a  faithful  and  intelligent 
dog,  a  mission  of  trust,  and  sixty  undisturbed 
miles  of  wondrous  upland  o'er  which  to  journey, 
fancy-free  and  clad  in  cowboy  garb?  Nothing 
more  —  except  —  and  Sundown  realized  with  a 
slight  sensation  of  emptiness  that  he  had  for- 
gotten to  eat  breakfast.  He  had  plenty  to  eat 
in  his  saddle-bags,  but  he  put  the  temptation 
to  refresh  himself  aside  as  unworthy,  for  the 
nonce,  of  his  higher  self.  Naturally  the  pent-up 

192 


The  Stranger 

flood  of  verse  that  had  been  oppressing  him  of  late 
surged  up  and  filled  his  mind  with  vague  and 
poignant  fancies.  His  love  for  animals,  despite 
his  headlong  experiences  on  the  Concho,  was  un- 
impaired, so  to  speak.  He  patted  the  neck  of  the 
rangy  roan  which  he  bestrode,  and  settled  him- 
self to  the  serious  task  of  expressing  his  inner- 
most being  in  verse.  He  dipped  deep  into  the 
Pierian  springs,  and  poesy  broke  forth.  But  not, 
however,  until  he  had  "cinched  up,"  as  he  men- 
tally termed  it,  the  saddle  of  his  Pegasus  of  the 
mesas. 

Sundown  paused  and  called  the  attention  of 
his  horse  to  the  last  line. 

He  hesitated,  harking  back  for  his  climax. 
"Jing!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  the  durndest  thing 
to  put  a  finish  on  a  piece  of  po'try!  You  get  to 
goin'  and  she  goes  fine.  Then  you  commence  to 
feel  that  you  're  comin'  to  the  end  and  nacherally 
you  asks  yourself  what's  the  end  goin'  to  be  like. 
Fust  thing  you're  stompin'  around  in  your  head 
upsettin'  all  that  you  writ  tryin'  to  rope  some- 
thin'  to  put  on  the  tail-end  of  the  parade  that'll 
show  up  strong.  Kind  o'  like  ropin'  a  steer.  No 
tellin'  where  that  pome  is  goin'  to  land  you." 

Sundown  was  more  than  pleased  with  himself. 
He  again  recited  the  verse  as  he  plodded  along, 
fixing  it  in  his  memory  for  the  future  edification 
of  his  compatriots  of  the  Concho. 

193 


Sundown  Slim 

"The  best  thing  I  ever  writ!"  he  assured  him- 
self. "Fust  thing  I  know  they'll  be  puttin'  me 
in  one  of  them  doxologies  for  keeps.  'Sundown 
Slim,  The  Poet  of  the  Mesas!'  Sounds  good  to 
me.  Reckon  that 's  why  I  never  seen  a  woman  that 
I  wanted  to  get  married  to.  Writin'  po'try  kind  of 
detracted  me  mind  from  love.  Guess  I  could  love 
a  woman  if  she  would  n't  laugh  at  me  for  bein' 
so  dog-goned  lengthy.  She  would  have  to  be  a 
small  one,  though,  so  as  she'd  be  kind  o'  scared 
o'  me  bein'  so  big.  Then  mebby  we  could  get 
along  pretty  good.  'Course,  I  would  n't  like  her 
to  be  scared  all  the  time,  but  jest  kind  o'  respect- 
able-like to  me.  Them's  the  best  kind.  Mebby 
I'll  ketch  one  some  day.  Now  there  goes  that 
Chance  after  a  rabbit  ag'in.  He's  a  long  piece 
off  —  jest  can  hardly  see  him  except  somethin* 
movin'.  Well,  if  he  comes  back  as  quick  as  he 
went,  he'll  be  here  soon."  And  Sundown  jogged 
along,  spur-chains  jingling  a  fairy  tune  to  his  oral 
soliloquies. 

Aside  from  forgetting  to  have  breakfast  that 
morning,  he  had  made  a  pretty  fair  beginning.  He 
was  well  on  his  way,  had  composed  a  roan-col- 
ored lyric  of  the  ranges,  discoursed  on  the  subject 
of  love,  and  had  set  his  spirit  free  to  meander  in 
the  realms  of  imagination.  Yet  his  spirit  swept 
back  to  him  with  a  rush  of  wings  and  a  question. 
Why  not  get  married?  And  "Gee!  Gosh!"  he 

194 


The  Stranger 

ejaculated,  startled  by  the  abruptness  of  the 
thought.  "Now  I  like  bosses  and  dogs  and  folks, 
but  livin'  with  bosses  and  dogs  ain't  like  livin' 
with  folks.  If  bosses  and  dogs  take  to  you,  they 
think  you're  the  whole  thing.  But  wimmen  is 
different.  If  they  take  to  you  —  why,  they  think 
they  're  the  whole  thing  jest  because  they  landed 
you.  I  dunno!  Jest  bein'  good  to  folks  ain't 
everything,  either.  But  bein'  good  to  bosses  and 
dogs  is.  Funny.  I  dunno,  though.  You  either 
got  to  understand  'em  and  be  rough  to  'em,  or  be 
good  to  'em  and  then  they  understand  you. 
Guess  they  ain't  no  regular  guide-book  on  how 
to  git  along  with  wimmen.  Well,  I  never  come 
West  for  me  health.  I  brung  it  with  me,  but  I 
ain't  goin'  to  take  chances  by  fallin'  in  love. 
Writin'  po'try  is  wearin'  enough." 

For  a  while  he  rode  silently,  enjoying  his  utter 
freedom.  But  followers  of  Romance  must  ever 
be  minute-men,  armed  and  equipped  to  answer 
her  call  with  instant  readiness  and  grace.  Lack- 
ing, perhaps,  the  grace,  nevertheless  Sundown 
was  loyal  to  his  sovereign  mistress,  in  proof  of 
which  he  again  sat  straight  in  the  saddle,  stirred 
to  speech  by  hidden  voices.  "Now,  take  it  like  I 
was  wearin'  a  hard-boiled  hat  and  a  collar  and 
buttin  shoes,  like  the  rest  of  them  sports.  Why, 
that  would  n't  ketch  the  eye  of  some  likely- 
lookin'  lady  wantin'  to  get  married.  Nix !  When 

195 


Sundown  Slim 

I  hit  town  it's  me  for  the  big  smoke  and  me  pic- 
ture on  the  front  page,  standin'  with  me  faithful 
dog  and  a  lot  of  them  fat  little  babies  without 
any  clothes  on,  but  wings,  fly  in'  around  the  edge 
of  me  picture  and  down  by  me  boots  and  up 
around  me  hat  —  and  in  big  letters  she  '11  say : 
*  Romance  of  A  Cowboy.  Western  Cattle  King 
in  Search  for  his  Long-lost  Sweetheart.  Sun- 
down, once  one  of  our  Leading  Hoboes,  now 
a  Wealthy  Rancher,  visits  the  Metrokolis  on 
Mysterious  Errand.'  Huh!  I  guess  mebby  that 
would  n't  ketch  a  good  one,  mebby  with  money." 

But  the  proverbial  fly  must  appear  in  the 
equally  proverbial  amber.  "'Bout  as  clost  as 
them  papers  ever  come  to  it,"  he  soliloquized. 
"Anyhow,  if  she  was  the  wrong  one,  and  not  me 
long-lost  affiniky,  and  was  to  get  stuck  on  me 
shape  and  these  here  chaps  and  spurs,  reckon  I 
could  tell  her  that  the  papers  made  the  big  mis- 
take, and  that  me  Mexican  wife  does  the  cookin' 
with  a  bread-knife  in  her  boot-leg,  and  that  I 
never  had  no  Mormon  ideas,  nohow.  That  ought 
to  sound  kind  o'  home-like,  and  let  her  down  easy 
and  gentle.  I  sure  don't  want  to  get  sent  down 
for  breakin'  the  wimmen's  hearts,  so  I  got  to  be 
durned  careful." 

So  immersed  was  he  in  his  imaginings  that  he 
did  not  at  once  realize  that  his  horse  had  stopped 
and  was  leisurely  grazing  at  the  edge  of  the  trail. 

196 


The  Stranger 

Chance,  who  had  been  running  ahead,  swung 
back  in  a  wide  circle  and  barked  impatiently. 
Sundown  awakened  to  himself.  "Here,  you  red 
boss,  this  ain't  no  pie-contest.  We  got  to  hit  the 
water-hole  afore  dark."  Once  more  in  motion,  he 
reverted  to  his  old  theme,  but  with  finality  in  his 
tone.  "I  guess  mebby  I  can't  tell  them  reporters 
somethin'  about  me  hotel  out  here  on  the  desert ! 
'The  only  prevailable  road-house  between  An- 
telope and  the  Concho,  run  by  the  retired  cattle- 
king,  Sundown  Slim.'  Sounds  good  to  me. 
Mebby  I  could  work  up  a  trade  by  advertisin' 
to  some  of  them  Eastern  folks  that  eats  nothin' 
tougher  for  breakfast  than  them  quakin'-oats 
and  buns  and  coffee.  Get  along,  you  red  hoss." 
About  six  o'clock  that  evening  Sundown  ar- 
rived at  the  deserted  ranch.  He  unsaddled  and 
led  the  horse  to  water.  Then  he  picketed  him  for 
the  night.  Returning,  he  prepared  a  meal  and 
ate  heartily.  Just  as  the  light  faded  from  the 
dusty  windows,  Chance,  who  was  curled  in  a 
corner,  rose  and  growled.  Sundown  strode  to  the 
door.  The  dog  followed,  sniffing  along  the  crack. 
Presently  Sundown  heard  the  shuffling  tread  of  a 
horse  plodding  through  the  sand.  He  swung 
open  the  door  and  stood  peering  into  the  dusk. 
He  saw  a  horseman  dismount  and  enter  the  gate- 
way. Chance  again  bristled  and  growled.  Sun- 
down restrained  him. 

197 


Sundown  Slim 

"Hello,  there!  That  you,  Jack?" 

"  Nope.  It 's  me — Sundown  from  the  Concho." 

"Concho,  eh?  Was  headed  that  way  myself. 
Saw  the  dog.  Thought  mebby  it  was  Jack's 
dog." 

"Goin'  to  stop?"  queried  Sundown  as  the 
other  advanced,  leading  his  horse. 

"Guess  I'll  have  to.  Don't  fancy  riding  at 
night.  Getting  too  old."  And  the  short,  genial- 
faced  stranger  laughed  heartily. 

"  Well,  they's  plenty  room.  Had  your  supper?  " 

"No,  but  I  got  some  chuck  along  with  me. 
Got  a  match?" 

Sundown  produced  matches.  The  other  rolled 
a  cigarette  and  studied  Sundown's  face  covertly 
in  the  glow  of  the  match.  In  the  flare  Sundown 
beheld  a  thick-set,  rather  short-necked  man, 
smooth-shaven,  and  of  a  ruddy  countenance.  He 
also  noticed  that  the  stranger  wore  a  coat,  and  at 
once  surmised  that  he  was  neither  cowboy  nor 
herder. 

"Guess  I'll  stake  out  the  boss,"  said  the  man. 
"See  you  later." 

Chance,  who  had  stood  with  head  lowered  and 
neck  outstretched,  whined  and  leaped  up  at  Sun- 
down, standing  with  paws  on  his  master's  chest 
and  vainly  endeavoring  to  tell  him  something. 
The  dog's  eyes  were  eloquent  and  intense. 

Sundown  patted  him.  "It's  all  right,  Chance. 
198 


The  Stranger 

That  guy's  all  right.  Guess  I  know  a  good  face 
when  I  see  one.  What's  the  matter,  anyway?" 

Chance  dropped  to  his  feet  and  stalked  to  his 
corner.  He  settled  himself  with  a  lugubrious 
sigh,  as  though  unwillingly  relinquishing  his  re- 
sponsibilities in  the  matter. 

When  the  stranger  returned,  Sundown  had  a 
fire  going.  "Feels  good,"  commented  the  man, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  surveying  the  room  in  the 
glow  that  flared  up  as  he  lifted  the  stove-lid. 
"On  your  way  in?" 

"Me?  Nope.  I'm  goin'  to  Antelope." 

"So?     Is  Jack  Corliss  hurt  bad? " 

"He  was  kind  o'  shook  up  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Guess  he's  gettin'  along  all  right  now.  Reckon 
you  heard  what  somebody  done  to  Fadeaway." 

The  stranger  nodded.  "They  got  him,  all 
right.  Knew  Fade  pretty  well  myself.  Guess  I  '11 
eat.  —  That  coffee  of  yours  was  good,  all 
right,"  he  said  as  he  finished  eating.  He  reached 
for  the  coffee-pot  and  tipped  it.  "She's  plumb 
empty." 

"I'll  fill  her,"  volunteered  Sundown,  oblig- 
ingly. 

As  he  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  the  stran- 
ger stepped  to  the  rear  door  of  the  room  and 
opened  it.  Then  he  closed  the  door  and  stooping 
laid  his  saddle  and  blankets  against  it.  "  He  can't 
make  a  break  that  way,"  he  said  to  himself.  As 

199 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  came  in,  the  man  noticed  that  the  front 
door  creaked  shrilly  when  opened  or  closed  and 
seemed  pleased  with  the  fact.  "Too  bad  about 
Fadeaway,"  he  said,  helping  himself  to  more 
coffee.  "Wonder  who  got  him?" 

"  I  dunno.  I  found  me  boss  with  his  head  busted 
the  same  day  they  got  Fade." 

"Been  riding  for  the  Concho  long?" 

"That  ain't  no  joke,  if  you're  meanin'  feet 
and  inches." 

The  other  laughed.  His  eyes  twinkled  in  the 
ruddy  glow  of  the  stove.  Suddenly  he  straight- 
ened his  shoulders  and  appeared  to  be  listening. 
"It's  the  bosses,"  he  said  finally.  "Some  coy- 
ote's fussin'  around  bothering  'em.  It's  a  long 
way  from  home  as  the  song  goes.  Lend  me  your 
gun  and  I  '11  go  see  if  I  can  plug  one  of  'em  and 
stop  their  yipping." 

Sundown  presented  his  gun  to  the  stranger, 
who  slid  it  between  trousers  and  shirt  at  the 
waist-band.  "Don't  hear  'em  now,"  he  an- 
nounced finally.  "Well,  guess  I'll  roll  in." 

Strangely  enough,  he  had  apparently  forgot- 
ten to  return  the  gun.  Sundown,  undecided 
whether  to  ask  for  it  or  not,  finally  spread  his 
blankets  and  called  Chance  to  him.  The  dog 
curled  at  his  master's  feet.  Save  for  the  diminish- 
ing crackle  of  dry  brush  in  the  stove,  the  room  was 
still.  Evidently  the  ruddy-faced  individual  was 

200 


The  Stranger 

asleep.  Vaguely  troubled  by  the  stranger's  fail- 
ure to  return  his  gun,  Sundown  drifted  to  sleep, 
not  for  an  instant  suspecting  that  he  was  virtu- 
ally the  prisoner  of  the  sheriff  of  Apache  County, 
who  had  at  Loring's  instigation  determined  to 
arrest  the  erstwhile  tramp  for  the  murder  of 
Fadeaway.  The  sheriff  had  his  own  theory  as  to 
the  killing  and  his  theory  did  not  for  a  moment 
include  Sundown  as  a  possible  suspect,  but  he 
had  a  good,  though  unadvertised,  reason  for  hold- 
ing him.  Accustomed  to  dealing  with  frontier 
folk,  he  argued  that  Sundown's  imprisonment 
would  eventually  bring  to  light  evidence  leading 
to  the  identity  of  the  murderer.  It  was  a  game  of 
bluff,  and  at  such  a  game  he  played  a  master 
hand. 

The  stranger  seemed  unusually  affable  in  the 
morning.  He  made  the  fire,  and,  before  Sundown 
had  finished  eating,  had  the  two  ponies  saddled 
and  ready  for  the  road.  Sundown  thought  him 
a  little  too  agreeable,  He  was  even  more  per- 
plexed when  the  man  said  that  he  had  changed 
his  mind  and  would  ride  to  Antelope  with  him. 
"Thought  you  said  you  was  goin'  to  the  Con- 
cho?" 

"Well,  seeing  you  say  Jack  can't  ride  yet, 
guess  I'll  wait." 

"He  can  talk,  all  right,"  asserted  Sundown. 
201 


Sundown  Slim 

The  other  paid  no  apparent  attention  to  this 
remark  but  rode  along  pointing  out  landmarks 
and  discoursing  largely  upon  the  weather,  the 
feed,  and  price  of  hay  and  grain  and  a  hundred 
topics  associated  with  ranch-life.  Sundown,  for- 
getful of  his  pose  as  a  vaquero  of  long  standing 
(unintentional),  assumed  rather  the  attitude  of 
one  absorbing  information  on  such  topics  than 
disseminating  it.  Nor  did  he  understand  the 
stranger's  genial  invitation  to  have  supper  with 
him  at  Antelope  that  night,  as  they  rode  into  the 
town.  He  knew,  however,  that  he  was  creating 
a  sensation,  which  he  attributed  to  his  Mexican 
spurs  and  chaps.  People  stared  at  him  as  he 
stalked  down  the  street  and  turned  to  stare  again. 
His  companion  seemed  very  well  known  in  An- 
telope. Nearly  every  one  spoke  to  him  or  waved 
a  greeting.  Yet  there  was  something  peculiar  in 
their  attitudes.  There  was  an  aloofness  about 
them  that  was  puzzling. 

"He  sure  looks  like  the  bad  man  from  Coyote 
Gulch,"  remarked  one  who  stood  in  front  of 
"The  Last  Chance"  saloon. 

"He  ain't  heeled,"  asserted  the  speaker's  com- 
panion. 

"Heeled!  Do  you  reckon  Jim's  plumb  loco? 
Jim  took  care  of  that." 

All  of  which  was  music  to  Sundown.  He  was 
making  an  impression,  yet  he  was  not  altogether 

202 


The  Stranger 

happy.  He  did  not  object  to  being  classed  as  a  bad 
man  so  long  as  he  knew  at  heart  that  he  was  any- 
thing but  that.  Still,  he  was  rather  proud  of  his 
instant  notoriety. 

They  stopped  in  front  of  a  square,  one-story 
building.  Sundown's  companion  unlocked  the 
door.  "Come  on  in,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  a 
smoke  and  talk  things  over." 

"But  I  was  to  see  Mr.  Kennedy  the  lawyer," 
asserted  Sundown. 

"So?  Well,  it  ain't  quite  time  to  see  him 
yet." 

Sundown's  back  became  cold  and  he  stared  at 
the  stranger  with  eyes  that  began  to  see  the  drift 
of  things.  "You  ain't  a  cop,  be  you?"  he  asked 
timorously. 

"They  call  it  'sheriff'  here." 

"Well,  I  call  it  kind  o'  warm  and  I'm  goin* 
outside." 

"I  would  n't.  One  of  my  deputies  is  sitting 
just  across  the  street.  He's  a  mighty  good  shot. 
Can  beat  me  hands  down.  Suppose  you  drop 
back  in  your  chair  and  tell  me  what  you  know 
about  the  shooting  of  Fadeaway." 

"Me?  You  ain't  joshin',  be  you?" 

"  Never  more  serious  in  my  life !  I  'm  interested 
in  this  case." 

"Well,  I  ain't!"  was  Sundown's  prompt  re- 
mark. "And  I  got  to  go.  I'm  goin'  on  privut 

203 


Sundown  Slim 

business  for  me  boss  and  confidenshell.   Me  and 
Chance." 

"That's  all  right,  my  friend.  But  I  have  some 
private  and  confidential  business  that  can't 
wait." 

"But  I  ain't  done  nothin',"  whined  Sundown, 
lapsing  into  his  old  attitude  toward  the  law. 

"Maybe  not.  Mr.  Loring  telephoned  me  that 
Fadeaway  had  been  shot  and  that  a  man  answer- 
ing your  description  —  a  tramp,  he  said  — 
seemed  to  know  something  about  it.  You  never 
was  a  puncher.  You  don't  get  on  or  off  a  cayuse 
like  one.  From  what  I  learn  you  were  a  Hobo 
when  Jack  Corliss  gave  you  a  job.  That's  none 
of  my  business.  I  arrest  you  as  a  suspicious 
character,  and  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  keep  you  here 
till  I  find  out  more  about  Fadeaway's  case. 
Have  a  cigar?" 

"Huh !  Say,  don't  you  ever  get  mad? "  queried 
Sundown,  impressed  by  the  other's  most  genial 
attitude. 

The  sheriff  laughed.  "  Does  n't  pay  in  my  bus- 
iness. Now,  you  just  ease  up  and  tell  me  what 
you  know.  It  will  save  time.  Did  you  ever  have 
trouble  with  Fadeaway?" 

"Not  on  your  life!  I  give  him  all  the  room  he 
wanted." 

"Did  you  know  Fernando  —  one  of  Loring's 
herders?" 

204 


The  Stranger 

"I  seen  him  onct.  He  saved  me  life  from  bein' 
killed  by  a  steer.  Did  he  say  I  done  it?"  par- 
ried Sundown. 

The  sheriff's  opinion  of  Sundown's  acumen 
was  disturbed.  Evidently  this  queer  individual 
posing  as  a  cowboy  was  not  such  a  fool,  after  all. 

"No.   Have  you  seen  him  lately?" 

"Nope.  Chance  and  me  was  over  to  his  camp, 
but  he  was  gone.  We  kind  o'  tracked  back  there 
from  the  place  where  we  found  Fadeaway." 

"That  so?" 

"Uhuh.  It  was  like  this."  And  Sundown  gave 
a  detailed  account  of  his  explorations. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  sheriff  made  a  note 
on  the  edge  of  a  newspaper.  Then  he  turned  to 
Sundown.  "  You  're  either  the  deepest  hand  I  've 
tackled  yet,  or  you're  just  a  plain  fool.  You 
don't  act  like  a  killer." 

"Killer!  Say,  mister,  I  would  n't  kill  a  bug 
that  was  bitin'  me  'less'n  he  would  n't  let  go. 
Why,  ask  Chance  there!" 

"I  wish  that  dog  could  talk,"  said  the  sheriff, 
smiling.  "Did  you  know  that  old  Fernando  had 
left  the  country  —  crossed  the  line  into  New 
Mexico?" 

"What?     Him?" 

"Yes.     I  know  about  where  he  is." 

"Guess  his  boss  fired  him  for  lettin'  all  the 
sheep  get  killed.  Guess  he  had  to  go  somewhere." 

205 


Sundown  Slim 

The  sheriff  nodded.  "So  you  were  going  to 
take  a  little  trip  yourself,  were  you?" 

' f  For  me  boss .   You  ask  him .  He  can  tell  you . ' ' 

"I  reckon  when  he  finds  out  where  you  are 
he'll  come  in." 

"And  you're  goin'  to  pinch  me?" 

"You 're  pinched." 

"  Well,  I  'm  dum  clost  to  gettin'  mad.  You  look 
here!  Do  you  think  I'd  be  ridin'  to  Antelope  if 
I  done  anything  like  shoot  a  man?  Do  you 
think  I'd  hand  you  me  gun  without  sayin'  a 
word?  And  if  you  think  I  did  n't  shoot  Fade- 
away, what  in  hell  you  pinchin'  me  for?  Ain't 
a  guy  got  a  right  to  live  ?" 

"Yes.     Fadeaway  had  a  right  to  live." 

"Well,  I  sure  never  wanted  to  see  him  cross 
over.  That's  the  way  with  you  cops.  If  a  fella  is 
a  Bo,  he  gets  pinched,  anyhow.  If  he  quits  bein' 
a  Bo  and  goes  to  workin'  at  somethin',  then  he 
gets  pinched  for  havin'  been  a  Bo  onct.  I  been 
livin'  honest  and  peaceful-like  and  straight  — 
and  I  get  pinched.  Do  you  wonder  a  Bo  gets 
tired  of  tryin'  to  brace  up?" 

"  Can't  say  that  I  do.  Got  to  leave  you  now. 
I'll  fix  you  up  comfortable  in  here."  And  the 
sheriff  unlocked  the  door  leading  to  the  one- 
room  jail.  "I'll  talk  it  over  with  you  in  the 
morning.  The  wife  and  kid  will  sure  be  surprised 
to  see  me  back,  so  I'll  mosey  down  home  before 

206 


The  Stranger 

somebody  scares  her  to  death  telling  her  I'm 
back  in  town.     So-long." 

Sundown  sat  on  the  narrow  bed  and  gazed  at 
the  four  walls  of  the  room.  "Wife  and  kid!"  he 
muttered.  "Well,  I  reckon  he's  got  a  right  to 
have  'em.  Gee  Gosh!  Wonder  if  he'll  feed 
Chance!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   SHERIFF  —  AND   OTHERS 

CHANCE,  disconsolate,  wandered  about  Ante- 
lope, returning  at  last  to  lie  before  the  door  of 
the  sheriffs  office.  The  sheriff,  having  reestab- 
lished himself,  for  the  nonce,  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family,  strolled  out  to  the  street.  He  called  to 
Chance,  who  dashed  toward  him,  then  stopped 
with  neck  bristling. 

The  sheriff's  companion  laughed.  "I  was  go- 
ing to  feed  him,"  explained  the  sheriff. 

"I  know  what  I'd  feed  him,"  growled  his  com- 
panion. 

"What  for?  He's  faithful  to  his  boss  —  and 
that's  something." 

The  other  grunted  and  they  passed  up  the 
street.  Groups  of  men  waylaid  them  asking 
questions.  As  they  drifted  from  one  group  to 
another,  the  friend  remarked  that  his  companion 
seemed  to  be  saying  little.  The  stout  sheriff 
smiled.  He  was  listening. 

Chance,  aware  that  something  was  wrong, 
fretted  around  the  door  of  Sundown's  temporary 
habitation.  Finally  he  threw  himself  down,  nose 
on  outstretched  paws,  and  gazed  at  the  lights 

208 


The  Sheriff- and  Others 

and  the  men  across  the  way.  Later,  when  the 
town  had  become  dark  and  silent,  the  dog  rose, 
shook  himself,  and  padded  down  the  highway 
taking  the  trail  for  the  Concho.  He  knew  that 
his  master's  disappearance  had  not  been  volun- 
tary. He  also  knew  that  his  own  appearance 
alone  at  the  Concho  would  be  evidence  that 
something  had  gone  wrong. 

Once  well  outside  the  town,  Chance  settled  to 
a  long,  steady  stride  that  ate  into  the  miles.  At 
the  water-hole  he  leaped  the  closed  gate  and 
drank.  Again  upon  the  road  he  swung  along 
across  the  starlit  mesas,  taking  the  hills  at  a  trot 
and  pausing  on  each  rise  to  rest  and  sniff  the  mid- 
night air.  Then  down  the  slopes  he  raced,  and 
out  across  the  levels,  the  great  bunching  muscles 
of  his  flanks  and  shoulders  working  tirelessly.  As 
dawn  shimmered  across  the  ford  he  trotted  down 
the  mud-bank  and  waded  into  the  stream,  where 
he  stood  shoulder-deep  and  lapped  the  cool  water. 

Corliss,  early  afoot,  found  him  curled  at  the 
front  door  of  the  ranch-house.  Chance  braced 
himself  on  his  fore  legs  and  yawned.  Then 
stretching  he  rose  and,  frisking  about  Cor- 
liss, tried  to  make  himself  understood.  Corliss 
glanced  toward  the  corral,  half  expecting  to  see 
Sundown's  horse.  Then  he  stepped  to  the  men's 
quarters.  He  greeted  Wingle,  asking  him  if  Sun- 
down had  returned. 

209 


Sundown  Slim 

"No.     Thought  he  went  east." 

"Chance  came  back,  alone." 

And  Corliss  and  the  cook  eyed  each  other 
simultaneously  and  nodded. 

"Loring,"  said  Wingle. 

"Guess  you're  right,  Hi." 

"Sheriff  must  'a'  been  out  of  town  and  got 
back  just  in  time  to  meet  up  with  Sundown," 
suggested  Wingle.  And  he  seized  a  scoop  and 
dug  into  the  flour  barrel. 

An  hour  later  the  buckboard  stood  at  the 
ranch  gate.  Bud  Shoop,  crooning  a  range-ditty 
that  has  not  as  yet  disgraced  an  anthology,  stood 
flicking  the  rear  wheel  with  his  whip:  — 

"Oh,  that  biscuit-shooter  on  the  Santa  Fe, 
—  Hot  coffee,  ham-and-eggs,  huckleberry  pies,  — 
Got  every  lonely  puncher  that  went  down  that  way 
With  her  yella-bird  hair  and  them  big  blue  eyes  .  .  . 

"For  a  two-bit  feed  and  a  two-bit  smile  ..." 

The  song  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  Corliss,  who  swung  to  the  seat  and  took  the 
reins. 

"I'll  jog  'em  for  a  while,"  he  said  as  Shoop 
climbed  beside  him.  "Go  ahead,  Bud.  Don't 
mind  me." 

Shoop  laughed  and  gestured  over  his  shoulder. 
"Chance,  there,  is  sleepin'  with  both  fists  this 

210 


The  Sheriff— and  Others 

lovely  mornin'.  Wonder  how  Sun  is  makin' 
it?" 

"We'll  find  out,"  said  Corliss,  shaking  his 
head. 

"Believe  us!  For  we're  goin'  to  town!  Say, 
ain't  you  kind  of  offerin'  Jim  Banks  a  chance  to 
get  you  easy?" 

"If  he  wants  to.  If  he  locked  Sundown  up,  he 
made  the  wrong  move." 

"It's  easy!"  said  Shoop,  gesturing  toward  the 
Loring  rancho  as  they  passed.  "  Goin'  to  bush  at 
the  water-hole  to-night?" 

"No.     We '11  go  through." 

Shoop  whistled.  "Suits  me!  And  I  reckon  the 
team  is  good  for  it." 

He  glanced  sideways  at  Corliss,  who  sat  with 
eyes  fixed  straight  ahead.  The  cattle-man's  face 
was  expressionless.  He  was  thinking  hard  and 
fast,  but  chose  to  mask  it. 

Suddenly  Shoop,  who  had  watched  him  some 
little  time,  burst  into  song.  "Suits  me!"  he  reit- 
erated, more  or  less  ambiguously,  by  the  way, 
for  he  had  just  concluded  another  ornate  stanza 
of  the  "Biscuit-shooter"  lyric. 

"It's  a  real  song,"  remarked  Corliss. 

"Well,  now!"  exclaimed  Shoop.  And  there- 
after he  also  became  silent,  knowing  from  experi- 
ence that  when  Corliss  had  anything  worth  while 
to  say,  he  would  say  it. 


Sundown  Slim 

About  noon  they  reached  the  water-hole  where 
Corliss  spent  some  time  examining  the  fences  and 
inspecting  the  outbuildings. 

"She's  in  right  good  shape  yet,"  commented 
Shoop. 

"The  title  has  reverted  to  the  State.  It's 
queer  Loring  has  n't  tried  to  file  on  it." 

"Mebby  he's  used  his  homestead  right  a'- 
ready,"  suggested  Shoop.  "  But  Nell  Loring 
could  file." 

They  climbed  back  into  the  buckboard.  Again 
Shoop  began  a  stanza  of  his  ditty.  He  seemed 
well  pleased  about  something.  Possibly  he  real- 
ized that  his  employer's  attitude  had  changed; 
that  he  had  at  last  awakened  to  the  obvious  ne- 
cessity for  doing  something.  As  Corliss  put  the 
team  to  a  brisk  trot  the  foreman's  song  ran  high. 
Action  was  his  element.  Inactivity  tended  to 
make  him  more  or  less  cynical,  and  ate  into  his 
tobacco  money. 

Suddenly  Corliss  turned  to  him.  "Bud,  I'm 
going  to  homestead  that  ranch." 

"Whoop!"  cried  the  foreman.  "First  shot  at 
the  buck!" 

"I'm  going  to  put  Sundown  on  it,  for  himself. 
He's  steady  and  would  n't  hurt  a  fly." 

Shoop  became  silent.  He,  in  turn,  stared 
straight  ahead. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  queried  Corliss. 


The  Sheriff- and  Others 

"Nothin'.  'Cept  I  would  n't  mind  havin'  a 
little  ole  homestead  myself." 

Corliss  laughed.  "You're  not  cut  out  for  it, 
Bud.  You  mean  you'd  like  the  chance  to  make 
the  water-hole  a  base  for  operations  against  Lor- 
ing.  And  the  place  is  n't  worth  seed,  Bud." 

"But  that  water  is  goin'  to  be  worth  somethin' 
—  and  right  soon.  Loring  can't  graze  over  this 
side  the  Concho,  if  he  can't  get  to  water." 

"That's  it.  If  I  put  you  on  that  ranch,  you'd 
stand  off  Loring's  outfit  to  the  finish,  I  guess." 

"I  sure  would." 

"That's  why  I  want  Sundown  to  take  it  up. 
He'd  let  his  worst  enemy  water  sheep  or  cattle 
there.  He  won't  fight,  but  he's  loyal  enough  to 
my  interests  to  sue  Loring  for  trespass,  if  neces- 
sary." 

"See  you  and  raise  you  one,  Jack.  They'll 
bluff  Sun  clean  off  his  hind  feet.  He  won't  stick." 

"I'll  chance  it,  Bud.  And,  besides,  I  need  you 
right  where  you  are." 

"I'm  sure  happy!"  exclaimed  the  irrepressible 
Bud,  grinning. 

Corliss  laughed,  then  shook  his  head.  "I'll 
tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said,  facing  his  foreman. 
"I've  been  'tending  too  many  irons  and  some  of 
'em  are  getting  cold.  I  don't  want  trouble  with 
any  one.  I've  held  off  from  Loring  because  — 
oh  —  because  I  had  a  good  reason  to  say  nothing. 

213 


Sundown  Slim 

Billy's  out  of  it  again.  The  coast  is  clear,  and 
I  'm  going  to  give  old  man  Loring  the  fight  of  his 
life." 

The  whoop  which  Shoop  let  out  startled  the 
team  into  a  lunging  gallop.  "Go  it,  if  you  want 
to!"  said  Corliss  as  the  buckboard  swung  around 
a  turn  and  took  the  incline  toward  Antelope. 
"I'm  in  a  hurry  myself." 

Nevertheless,  he  saved  the  team  as  they  struck 
the  level  and  held  them  to  a  trot.  "Wise  old 
head,"  was  Shoop's  inward  comment.  And  then 
aloud:  "Say,  Jack,  I  ain't  sayin'  I'm  glad  to  see 
you  get  beat  up,  but  that  bing  on  the  head  sure 
got  you  started  right.  The  boys  was  commencin' 
to  wonder  how  long  you'd  stand  it  without  get- 
tin'  your  back  up.  She's  up.  I  smell  smoke." 

At  Antelope,  Shoop  put  up  the  horses.  Later 
he  joined  his  employer  and  they  had  supper  at 
the  hotel.  Then  they  strolled  out  and  down 
the  street  toward  the  sheriff's  home.  When  they 
knocked  at  the  door  it  was  opened  by  a  plump, 
dark-eyed  woman  who  greeted  them  heartily. 

"Come  right  in,  boys.  Jim's  tendin'  the 
baby."  And  she  took  their  hats. 

They  stepped  to  the  adjoining  room  where 
Sheriff  Jim  sat  on  the  floor,  his  coat  off,  while  his 
youngest  deputy,  clad  only  in  an  abbreviated  es- 
sential garnished  with  a  safety-pin,  sat  opposite, 

214 


The  Sheriff- and  Others 

gravely  tearing  up  the  evening  paper  and  handing 
the  pieces  to  his  proud  father,  who  stuffed  the 
pieces  in  his  pants  pocket  and  cheerfully  asked 
for  more. 

"Election?"  queried  Shoop. 

"And  all  coming  Jim's  way,"  commented  Cor- 
liss. 

The  baby  paused  in  his  balloting  and  solemnly 
surveyed  the  dusty  strangers.  Then  he  pulled  a 
piece  of  paper  from  his  father's  pocket  and  of- 
fered it  to  Shoop.  "Wants  me  to  vote,  the  little 
cuss!  Well,  here  goes."  And,  albeit  unfamiliar 
with  plump  aborigines  at  close  range,  the  foreman 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  game  and  cast  his 
vote  for  the  present  incumbent,  deputizing  the 
"yearlin"'  to  handle  the  matter.  The  yearlin', 
however,  evidently  thought  it  was  time  for  a  re- 
count. He  gravitated  to  the  perspiring  candidate 
and,  standing  on  his  hands  and  feet,  —  an  atti- 
tude which  seemingly  caused  him  no  inconven- 
ience, —  reached  in  the  ballot-box  and  pulling 
therefrom  a  handful  of  votes  he  cast  them  ceiling- 
ward  with  a  shrill  laugh,  followed  by  an  unintel- 
ligible spluttering  as  he  sat  down  suddenly  and 
began  to  pick  up  the  scattered  pieces  of  paper. 

"You're  elected,"  announced  Shoop. 

And  the  by-play  was  understood  by  the  three 
men,  yet  each  maintained  his  unchanged  expres- 
sion of  countenance. 

215 


Sundown  Slim 

"You  see  how  I'm  fixed,  boys,"  said  the 
sheriff.  "Got  to  stick  by  my  constituent  or  he'll 
howl." 

"We're  in  no  hurry,  Jim.  Just  drove  into 
town  to  look  around  a  little." 

"  I  '11  take  him  now,"  said  Mrs.  Jim,  as  she  came 
from  the  kitchen  drying  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

The  elector,  however,  was  of  a  different  mind. 
He  greeted  his  mother  with  a  howl  and  a  series 
of  windmill  revolutions  of  his  arms  and  legs  as 
she  caught  him  up. 

"Got  mighty  free  knee-action,"  remarked 
Shoop.  "Mebby  when  he's  bedded  down  for  the 
night  you  can  come  over  to  the  'Palace.' ' 

"I'll  be  right  with  you."  And  the  sheriff 
slipped  into  his  coat.  "How  you  feeling,  Jack?" 

"Pretty  good.   That's  a  great  boy  of  yours." 

"Sure  got  your  brand,"  added  Shoop.  "Built 
close  to  the  ground  like  his  dad." 

Sheriff  Banks  accepted  these  hardy  compli- 
ments with  an  embarrassed  grin  and  followed  his 
guests  to  the  doorway. 

"Good-night!"  called  Mrs.  Jim  from  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  bedroom. 

"  Good-night,  ma'am !"  from  Shoop. 

"Good-night!"  said  Corliss.  "Take  good  care 
of  that  yearling." 

"Well,  now,  John,  as  if  I  would  n't!" 

"Molly  would  come  out,"  apologized  Jim, 
216 


The  Sheriff- and  Others 

"only  the  kid  is  —  is  grazin'.  How's  the  feed 
holdin'  out  on  the  Concho?"  which  question  fol- 
lowing in  natural  sequence  was  not,  however,  put 
accidentally. 

"Fair,"  said  Corliss.  "We  looked  for  you  up 
that  way." 

"I  was  over  on  the  Reservation.  I  sent  Tom 
up  there  to  see  after  things,"  and  the  sheriff  ges- 
tured toward  the  distant  Concho.  "Sent  him  up 
to-night.  Let's  go  over  to  the  office." 

Corliss  shook  his  head.  "Don't  want  to  see 
him,  just  now.  Besides,  I  want  to  say  a  few 
things  private." 

"All  right.  There  was  a  buyer  from  Kansas 
City  dropped  in  to  town  to-day.  Did  n't  see  him, 
did  you?" 

"Cattle?" 

"Uhuh." 

"No.  We  just  got  in." 

They  turned  and  walked  up  the  street,  nod- 
ding to  an  occasional  lounger,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing easily,  yet  each  knew  that  their  banter  was  a 
meandering  current  leading  to  something  deeper 
which  would  be  sounded  before  they  separated. 

Sheriff  Banks  suddenly  stopped  and  slapped 
his  thigh.  "  By  Gum !  I  clean  forgot  to  ask  if  you 
had  chuck.  You  see  that  kid  of  mine  — " 

"Sure!  But  we  put  the  'Palace'  two  feeds  to 
the  bad,"  asserted  Shoop. 

217 


Sundown  Slim 

They  drifted  to  the  hotel  doorway  and  paused 
at  the  counter  where  each  gravely  selected  a  cigar. 
Then  they  clumped  upstairs  to  Corliss's  room. 
Jim  Banks  straddled  a  chair  and  faced  his  friends. 

Shoop,  excusing  himself  with  humorous  polite- 
ness, punched  the  pillows  together  and  lay  back 
on  the  bed  which  creaked  and  rustled  beneath  his 
weight.  "These  here  corn-husk  mattresses  is 
apologizin',"  he  said,  twisting  around  and  lean- 
ing on  his  elbow. 

"Well,  Jack,"  said  the  smiling  sheriff,  "shoot 
the  piece." 

"Or  the  justice  of  the  peace  —  don't  matter," 
murmured  Shoop. 

Corliss,  leaning  forward,  gazed  at  the  end  of  his 
cigar.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes.  "Jim,"  he  said 
quietly,  "I  want  Sundown." 

"So  do  I." 

Corliss  smiled.  '' You've  got  him,  all  right. 
What's  your  idea?" 

"Well,  if  anybody  else  besides  you  asked  me, 
Jack,  they'd  be  wasting  time.  Sundown  is  your 
man.  I  don't  know  anything  about  him  except 
he  was  a  Hobo  before  he  hit  the  Concho.  But  I 
happen  to  know  that  he  was  pretty  close  to  the 
place  where  Fadeaway  got  his,  the  same  day  and 
about  the  same  time.  I've  listened  to  all  the 
talk  around  town  and  it  has  n't  all  been  friendly 
to  you.  You  can  guess  that  part  of  it." 

218 


The  Sheriff— and  Others 

"If  you  want  me  — "  began  Corliss. 

"No."  And  the  sheriff's  gesture  of  negation 
spread  a  film  of  cigar-ash  on  the  floor.  "It's  the 
other  man  I  want." 

"Sundown?"  asked  Shoop,  sitting  up  sud- 
denly. 

"You  go  to  sleep,  Bud,"  laughed  the  sheriff. 
"You  can't  catch  me  that  easy." 

Shoop  relaxed  with  the  grin  of  a  school-boy. 

"I'll  go  bail,"  offered  Corliss. 

"No.  That  would  spoil  my  plan.  See  here, 
Jack,  I  know  you  and  Bud  won't  talk.  Loring 
telephoned  me  to  look  out  for  Sundown.  I  did. 
Now,  Loring  knows  who  shot  Fadeaway,  or  I 
miss  my  guess.  Nellie  Loring  knows,  too.  So  do 
you,  but  you  can't  prove  it.  It  was  like  Fade  to 
put  Loring's  sheep  into  the  canon,  but  we  can't 
prove  even  that,  now.  I  'm  pretty  sure  your  scrap 
with  Fade  did  n't  have  anything  to  do  with  his 
getting  shot.  You  ain't  that  kind." 

"Well,  here's  my  side  of  it,  Jim.  Fadeaway 
had  it  in  for  me  for  firing  him.  He  happened  to 
see  me  talking  to  Nellie  Loring  at  Fernando's 
camp.  Later  we  met  up  on  the  old  Blue  Trail. 
He  said  one  or  two  things  that  I  did  n't  like.  I 
let  him  have  it  with  the  butt  of  my  quirt.  He 
jerked  out  his  gun  and  hit  me  a  clip  on  the 
head.  That's  all  I  remember  till  the  boys  came 
along." 

219 


Sundown  Slim 

"You  didn't  ride  as  far  as  the  upper  ford, 
that  day?" 

"No.  I  told  Fadeaway  I  wanted  him  to  come 
back  with  me  and  talk  to  Loring.  I  was  pretty 
sure  he  put  the  sheep  into  the  canon." 

"Well,  Jack,  knowing  you  since  you  were  a 
boy,  that's  good  enough  for  me." 

"But  how  about  Sundown?" 

"He  stays.  How  long  do  you  think  I'll  hold 
Sundown  before  Nell  Loring  drives  into  Antelope 
to  tell  me  she  can  like  as  not  prove  he  did  n't  kill 
Fade?" 

"  But  if  you  know  that,  why  do  you  hold  him?  " 

"To  cinch  up  my  ideas,  tight.  Holding  him 
will  make  talk.  Folks  always  like  to  show  off 
what  they  know  about  such  things.  It's  natural 


in  'em." 


"New  Mex.  is  a  comf 'table-sized  State,"  com- 
mented Shoop  from  the  bed. 

"And  he  was  raised  there,"  said  the  sheriff. 
"He's  got  friends  over  the  line  and  so  have  I. 
Sent  'em  over  last  week." 

"Thought  Sun  was  raised  back  East?"  said 
Shoop,  again  sitting  up. 

Corliss  smiled.     "Better  give  it  up,  Bud." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  said  Shoop,  mimicking  a 
grande  dame  who  had  once  stopped  at  Antelope 
in  search  for  local  color.  "Anyhow,  you  got  to 
set  a  Mexican  to  catch  a  Mexican  when  he's 

220 


The  Sheriff— and  Others 

hidin'  out  with  Mexicans."  With  this  bit  of  ad- 
vice, Shoop  again  relapsed  to  silence. 

"Going  back  to  the  Concho  to-morrow?" 
queried  Banks. 

"No.     Got  a  little  business  in  town." 

"I  heard  Loring  was  due  here  to-morrow."  The 
sheriff  stated  this  casually,  yet  with  intent.  "I 
was  talking  with  Art  Kennedy  'bout  two  hours 
ago- 

" Kennedy  the  land-shark?"  queried  Shoop. 

"The  same.  He  said  something  about  expect- 
ing Loring." 

Bud  Shoop  had  never  aspired  to  the  distinc- 
tion of  being  called  a  diplomat,  but  he  had  an  ac- 
tive and  an  aggressive  mind.  With  the  instinct 
for  seizing  the  main  chance  by  its  time-honored 
forelock,  he  rose  swiftly.  "By  Gravy,  Jack!  I 
gone  and  left  them  things  in  the  buckboard ! " 

"Oh,  they'll  be  all  right,"  said  Corliss  easily. 

Then  he  caught  his  foreman's  eye  and  read  its 
meaning.  His  nod  to  Shoop  was  all  but  imper- 
ceptible. 

"I  dunno,  Jack.   I'd  hate  to  lose  them  notes." 

"Notes?"  And  the  sheriff  grinned.  "Writing 
a  song  or  starting  a  bank,  Bud?" 

"Song.  I  was  composin'  it  to  Jack,  drivin'  in." 
And  the  genial  Bud  grabbed  his  hat  and  swept 
out  of  the  room. 

Long  before  he  returned,  Sheriff  Jim  had  de- 


Sundown  Slim 

parted  puzzling  over  the  foreman's  sudden  exit 
until  he  came  opposite  "The  Last  Chance"  sa- 
loon. There  he  had  an  instant  glimpse  of  Bud 
and  the  one  known  as  Kennedy  leaning  against 
the  bar  and  conversing  with  much  gusto.  Then 
the  swing-door  dropped  into  place.  The  sheriff 
smiled  and  putting  two  and  two  together  found 
that  they  made  four,  as  is  usually  the  case.  He 
had  wanted  to  let  Corliss  know  that  Loring  was 
coming  to  Antelope  and  to  let  him  know  casually, 
and  glean  from  the  knowledge  anything  that 
might  be  of  value.  Sheriff  Banks  knew  a  great 
deal  more  about  the  affairs  of  the  distant  ranch- 
ers than  he  was  ordinarily  given  credit  for.  He 
had  long  wondered  why  Corliss  had  not  taken  up 
the  water-hole  homestead. 

Corliss  was  in  bed  when  Shoop  swaggered  in. 
The  foreman  did  a  few  steps  of  a  jig,  flung  his  hat 
in  the  corner,  and  proceeded  to  undress. 

"Did  you  see  Kennedy?"  yawned  Corliss. 

"Bet  your  whiskers  I  did!  Got  the  descrip- 
tions in  my  pocket.  You  owe  me  the  price  of 
seven  drinks,  Jack,  to  say  nothin'  of  what  I  took 
myself.  Caught  him  at  'The  Last  Chance'  and 
let  on  I  was  the  pore  lonely  cowboy  with  a  suf- 
ferin'  thirst.  Filled  him  up  with  '  Look-out-I  'm- 
Comin"  and  landed  him  at  his  shack,  where  he 
dug  up  them  ole  water-hole  descriptions,  me 
helpin'  promiscus.  He  kind  o'  bucked  when  I  ast 

222 


The  Sheriff— and  Others 

him  for  them  papers.  Said  he  only  had  one  copy 
that  he  was  holdin'  for  another  party.  And  I 
did  n't  have  to  strain  my  guesser  any,  to  guess 
who.  I  told  him  to  saw  off  and  get  busy  quick  or 
I'd  have  him  pinched  for  playin'  favorites. 
Guess  he  seen  I  meant  business,  for  he  come 
acrost.  She  toots  for  Antelope  six-forty  to- 
morrow mornin'.  This  is  where  I  make  the  grand 
play  as  a  homesteader,  seein'  pore  Sundown's 
eatin'  on  the  county.  Kind  o'  had  a  hunch  that 
way." 

"  We  '11  have  to  nail  it  quick.  If  you  file  you  '11 
have  to  quit  on  the  Concho." 

"Well,  then,  I  quit.  Sinker  is  right  in  line  for 
my  bunk.  Me  for  the  big  hammer  and  the  little  ole 
sign  what  says:  'Private  property!  Keep  off! 
All  trespassers  will  be  executed!'  And  under- 
neath, kind  o'  sassy-like,  'Bud  Shoop,  proprie- 
tor.'" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   ESCAPE 

ABOUT  midnight  Corliss  and  his  foreman  were 
awakened  by  a  cry  of  "Fire!"  They  scrambled 
from  bed  and  pawed  around  in  the  dark  for  their 
clothes. 

"Spontinuous  combustication,"  said  Shoop, 
with  a  yawn.  "A  Jew  clothin'-store  and  a  in- 
surance-policy. Wonder  who's  ablaze?" 

"I  can  see  from  here,"  said  Corliss  at  the  win- 
dow. "Keep  on  dressing,  Bud,  it's  the  sheriff's 
office!" 

"Sundown!"  Shoop  exclaimed,  dancing  about 
inelegantly  with  one  foot  halfway  down  his  pants- 
leg. 

They  tramped  down  the  stairs  'and  ran  across 
to  the  blazing  building.  A  group  of  half -dressed 
citizens  were  passing  buckets  and  dashing  their 
final  and  ineffectual  contents  against  the  spout- 
ing flames. 

"He's  sure  done  on  both  sides  if  he's  in  there," 
remarked  Shoop.  He  ran  around  to  the  back  of 
the  jail  and  called  loudly  on  Sundown.  Jumping, 
he  caught  the  high  wooden  bars  of  the  window 
and  peered  into  the  rear  room.  A  rivulet  of  flame 

224 


The  Escape 

crept  along  the  door  that  led  from  the  jail  to  the 
office.  The  room  seemed  to  be  empty.  Shoop 
dropped  to  the  ground  and  strolled  around  to  the 
front.  "Tryin'  to  save  the  buildin'  or  the  pris- 
oner?" he  asked  of  a  sweating  bucket-passer. 

The  man  paused  for  a  second,  slopping  water  on 
his  boots  and  gazing  about  excitedly.  "Hey, 
boys!"  he  shouted.  "Get  an  axe  and  chop  open 
the  back!  The  long  gent  is  roastin'  to  death  in 
there!" 

"And  I  reckon  that'll  keep  'em  busy  while  Sun 
fans  it,"  soliloquized  Shoop.  "Hello,  Jack!" 
And  he  beckoned  to  Corliss.  "He  ain't  in  there," 
he  whispered.  "But  how  he  got  out,  gets  me!" 

"We  might  as  well  go  back  to  bed,"  said  Cor- 
liss. "They'll  get  him,  anyway.  There's  one  of 
Jim's  deputies  on  a  cayuse  now." 

"Where  do  you  reckon  he'll  head  for?" 

"Don't  know,  Bud.  If  he  heads  for  the  water- 
hole,  they'll  get  him  in  no  time." 

"Think  he  set  her  on  fire?" 

"Maybe  he  dropped  a  cigarette.  I  don't 
think  he'd  risk  it,  on  purpose." 

Shoop  glanced  at  his  watch,  tilting  it  toward 
the  light  of  the  flames.  "It's  just  one.  Hello! 
There  comes  the  agent.  Reckon  he  thought  the 
station  was  afire." 

"Guess  not.  He's  lighting  up.  Must  be  a 
special  going  to  stop." 

225 


Sundown  Slim 

"He's  sure  set  the  red.  Say,  I'm  goin'  over  to 
see.  Wait  a  minute." 

Shoop  followed  the  agent  into  the  station. 
Presently  the  foreman  reappeared  and  beckoned 
to  Corliss.  "Listen,  Jack!  Reddy  says  he's  got 
some  runnin'  orders  for  the  Flyer  and  she's  got 
to  stop  to  get  'em.  That  means  we  can  eat  break- 
fast in  Usher,  'stead  of  here.  No  tellin'  who'll  be 
on  the  six-forty  headed  for  the  same  place,  to- 


morrow morninV 


Corliss  pondered.  His  plan  of  homesteading 
the  water-hole  ranch  had  been  upset  by  the  ar- 
rest of  Sundown.  Still,  that  was  no  reason  for 
giving  up  the  plan.  From  Shoop's  talk  with 
Kennedy,  the  lawyer,  it  was  evident  that  Loring 
had  his  eye  on  the  deserted  ranch. 

Far  down  the  track  he  saw  a  glimmering  dot  of 
fire  and  heard  the  faint  muffled  whistle  of  the 
Flyer.  "All  right,  Bud.  I '11  get  the  tickets.  Get 
our  coats.  We  can  just  make  it." 

When  they  stepped  from  the  Flyer  at  Usher, 
the  faint  light  of  dawn  was  edging  the  eastern 
hills.  A  baggage-truck  rumbled  past  and  they 
heard  some  one  shout,  "  Get  out  o'  that ! "  In  the 
dim  light  they  saw  a  figure  crawl  from  beneath 
the  baggage-car  and  dash  across  the  station  plat- 
form to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  shadowy  gloom 
of  a  side  street. 

"I  only  had  seven  drinks,"  said  Shoop,  gazing 


The  Escape 

after  the  disappearing  figure.  "But  if  Sundown 
ain't  a  pair  of  twins,  that  was  him." 

"  Hold  on,  Bud ! "  And  Corliss  laid  his  hand  on 
Snoop's  arm.  " Don't  take  after  him.  That's  the 
way  to  stampede  him.  We  go  easy  till  it's  light. 
He '11  see  us." 

They  sauntered  up  the  street  and  stopped  op- 
posite an  "all-night"  eating-house. 

"We  won't  advertise  the  Concho,  this  trip," 
said  Corliss,  as  they  entered. 

Shoop,  with  his  legs  curled  around  the  counter 
stool,  sipped  his  coffee  and  soliloquized.  "Wise 
old  head!  Never  was  a  hotel  built  that  was  too 
good  for  Jack  when  he's  travelin'.  And  he  don't 
do  his  thinkin'  with  his  feet,  either." 

The  waiter,  who  had  retired  to  the  semi-seclu- 
sion of  the  kitchen,  dozed  in  a  chair  tilted  back 
against  the  wall.  He  was  awakened  by  a  voice 
at  the  rear  door.  Shoop  straightened  up  and 
grinned  at  Corliss.  The  waiter  vocalized  his  atti- 
tude with  the  brief  assertion  that  there  was  "no- 
thin'  doinV 

"It 'shim!"  said  Shoop. 

"I  got  the  price,"  came  from  the  unseen. 

"Then  you  beat  it  around  to  the  front,"  sug- 
gested the  waiter. 

Shoop  called  for  another  cup  of  coffee.  As  the 
waiter  brought  it,  Sundown,  hatless,  begrimed, 
and  showing  the  effects  of  an  unupholstered  jour- 

227 


Sundown  Slim 

ney,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Shoop  turned  and 
stood  up. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  me  old  pal  Buddy!"  ex- 
claimed Sundown.  "What  you  doin'  in  this  here 
burg?" 

"Why,  hello,  Hawkins!  Where 'd  you  fall 
from?  How's  things  over  to  Homer?" 

Sundown  took  the  hint  and  fabricated  a  heart- 
rending tale  of  an  all-night  ride  on  "a  cay  use 
that  had  been  tryin'  to  get  rid  of  him  ever  since 
he  started  and  had  finally  piled  him  as  the  Flyer 
tooted  for  Usher." 

"You  do  look  kind  o'  shook-up.  Better 
eat." 

"I  sure  got  room,"  said  Sundown.  "Fetch  me 
a  basket  of  doughnuts  and  a  pail  of  coffee.  That 
there  Fly —  cayuse  sure  left  me,  but  he  did  n't 
take  me  appetite." 

After  the  third  cup  of  coffee  and  the  seventh 
doughnut,  Sundown  asserted  that  he  felt  better. 
They  sauntered  out  to  the  street. 

"How  in  blazes  did  you  get  loose?"  queried 
Shoop,  surveying  the  unkempt  adventurer  with 
frank  amazement. 

"Blazes  is  correct.  I  dumb  out  of  the  win- 
dow." 

"Set  her  on  fire?" 

"Not  with  mellishus  extent,  as  the  judge  says. 
Mebby  it  was  a  cigarette.  I  dunno.  First  thing 

228 


The  Escape 

I  know  I  was  dreamin'  I  smelt  smoke  and  the 
dream  sure  come  true.  If  them  bars  had  been  a 
leetle  closter  together,  I  reckon  I  would  be  tunin' 
a  harp,  right  now." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  jump  our  train  — 
and  get  off  here?"  asked  Corliss. 

"It  was  sure  lucky,"  said  Sundown,  grinning. 
"I  run  'round  back  of  the  station  and  snook  up 
and  crawled  under  the  platform  in  front.  I  could 
see  everybody  hoppin'  'round  and  I  figured  I  was 
safer  on  the  job,  expectin'  they'd  be  lookin'  for 
me  to  beat  it  out  of  town.  Then  you  fellas  come 
up  and  stood  talkin'  right  over  me  head.  Bud  he 
says  somethin'  about  eatin'  breakfast  in  Usher, 
and  bein'  hungry  and  likin'  good  comp'ny,  I  waits 
till  the  train  pulls  up  and  crawls  under  the  bag- 
gage. And  here  I  be." 

"We'll  have  to  get  you  a  hat  and  a  coat. 
We  '11  stop  at  the  next  barber-shop.  You  wash  up 
and  get  shaved.  We '11  wait.  Then  we '11  head  for 
the  court-house." 

"Me  ranch?"  And  Sundown  beamed  through 
his  grime.  "Makes  me  feel  like  writin'  a  pome! 
Now,  mebby  — " 

"Haven't  time,  now.  Got  to  scare  up  two 
more  witnesses  to  go  on  your  paper.  There 's  a 
place,  just  opening  up." 

They  crossed  the  street.  Next  to  the  barber- 
shop was  a  saloon. 

229 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  eyed  the  sign  pensively.  "I  ain't  a 
drinkin'  man  —  reg'lar,"  he  said,  "but  there  are 
times  ../'- 

"There  are  times,"  echoed  Corliss,  and  the 
three  filed  between  the  swing-doors  and  disap- 
peared. 

An  hour  later  three  men,  evidently  cow-men 
from  their  gait  and  bearing,  passed  along  the 
main  street  of  Usher  and  entered  the  court-house, 
where  they  were  met  by  two  citizens.  The  five 
men  were  admitted  to  the  inner  sanctum  of 
the  hall  of  justice,  from  which  they  presently 
emerged,  laughing  and  joking.  The  tallest  of 
them  seemed  to  be  receiving  the  humorous  con- 
gratulations of  his  companions.  He  shook  hands 
all  around  and  remarked  half -apologetically :  "I 
ain't  a  drinkin'  man,  reg'lar  .  .  .  but  there  are 
times  ..." 

The  five  men  drifted  easily  toward  the  swing- 
doors.  Presently  they  emerged.  Shoop  nudged 
his  employer.  David  Loring  and  his  daughter 
had  just  crossed  the  street.  The  old  sheep-man 
glanced  at  the  group  in  front  of  the  saloon  and 
blinked  hard.  Of  the  West,  he  read  at  a  glance 
the  situation.  Sundown,  Corliss,  and  Shoop 
raised  their  hats  as  Eleanor  Loring  bowed. 

"Beat  him  by  a  neck!"  said  Shoop.  "Guess 
we  better  fan  it,  eh,  Jack?" 

230 


The  Escape 

"There's  no  hurry,"  said  Corliss  easily.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  realized  that  Sundown's  presence  in 
Usher  was  quite  apt  to  be  followed  by  a  wire 
from  the  sheriff  of  Antelope  which  would  compli- 
cate matters,  to  say  the  least.  He  shook  hands 
with  the  two  townsmen  and  assured  them  that 
the  hospitality  of  the  Concho  was  theirs  when 
they  chose  to  honor  it.  Then  he  turned  to  Bud 
Shoop.  "  Get  the  fastest  saddle-horse  in  town  and 
ride  out  to  the  South  road  and  wait  for  us.  I'm 
going  to  send  Sundown  over  to  Murphy's.  Pat 
knows  me  pretty  well.  From  there  he  can  take 
the  Apache  road  to  the  Concho.  We  can  outfit 
him  and  get  him  settled  at  the  water-hole  ranch 
before  any  one  finds  out  where  he  is." 

"But  Jim '11  get  him  again,"  said  Shoop. 

"I  expect  him  to.     That'll  be  all  right." 

"Well,  you  got  me.  Thought  I  knowed  some- 
thin'  about  your  style,  but  I  don't  even  know 
your  name." 

"Let's  move  on.  You  go  ahead  and  get  the 
cayuse.  I  want  to  talk  to  Sundown." 

Then  Corliss  explained  his  plan.  He  told  Sun- 
down to  keep  the  water-hole  fenced  and  so  keep 
the  sheep-men  from  using  it.  This  would  virtu- 
ally control  several  thousand  acres  of  range 
around  the  water-hole  ranch.  He  told  Sundown 
that  he  expected  him  to  homestead  the  ranch 
for  himself  —  do  the  necessary  work  to  secure 

231 


Sundown  Slim 

a  title,  and  then  at  his  option  either  continue  as 
a  rancher  or  sell  the  holding  to  the  Concho.  "I '11 
start  you  with  some  stock  —  a  few  head,  and  a 
horse  or  two.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  'tend  to 
business  and  forget  that  I  have  ever  spoken  to 
you  about  homesteading  the  place.  You'll  have 
to  play  it  alone  after  you  get  started." 

"Suits  me,  boss.  I  ain't  what  you'd  call  a 
farmer,  but  me  and  Chance  can  scratch  around 
and  act  like  we  was.  But  the  smooth  gent  as 
pinched  me  —  ain't  he  goin'  to  come  again?" 

"Sure  as  you're  wearing  spurs!  But  you  just 
take  it  easy  and  you  '11  come  out  all  right.  Loring 
put  Jim  Banks  after  you.  Jim  is  all  right  and  he 's 
business.  Loring  wants  the  water-hole  ranch. 
So  do  I.  Now,  if  Loring  tells  the  sheriff  he  saw 
you  in  Usher,  and  later  at  the  water-hole,  Jim  will 
begin  to  think  that  Loring  is  keeping  pretty  close 
trail  on  you.  When  Jim  finds  out  you  've  filed  on 
the  water-hole,  —  and  he  already  knows  that 
Loring  wants  it,  —  he  '11  begin  to  figure  that 
Loring  had  you  jailed  to  keep  you  out  of  his  way. 
And  you  can  take  it  from  me,  Jim  Banks  is  the 
squarest  man  in  Apache  County.  He  '11  give  you 
a  chance  to  make  good.  If  we  can  keep  you  out 
of  sight  till  he  hears  from  over  the  line,  I  think 
you  '11  be  safe  after  that.  If  we  can't,  why,  you 
still  have  your  title  to  the  water-hole  ranch  and 
that  holds  it  against  trespassers." 

232 


The  Escape 

"Well,  you're  sure  some  shark  on  the  long 
think!  Say,  I  been  scared  stiff  so  long  I'm  just 
commencin'  to  feel  me  legs  again.  The  sun  is 
shinin'  and  the  birds  are  sawin'  wood.  I  get  you, 
boss!  The  old  guy  that  owns  the  wool  had  me 
pinched.  Well,  I  ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in'  him, 
but  that  don't  say  I  ain't  workin'  for  you.  Say, 
if  he  comes  botherin'  around  me  farm,  do  I 
shoot?" 

"No.  You  just  keep  right  on.  Pay  no  atten- 
tion to  him." 

"Just  sick  Chance  on  him,  eh?" 

"He'd  get  Chance.  I'm  going  to  run  some 
cattle  over  that  way  soon.  Then  you'll  have 
company.  You  need  n't  be  scared." 

"Cattle  is  some  comp'ny  at  that.  Say,  have  I 
got  to  ride  that  there  bronc  Bud  jest  went  down 
the  street  on?" 

"As  soon  as  we  get  out  of  town." 

"Which  would  n't  be  long  if  we  had  bosses  like 
him,  eh?" 

"I'll  give  you  a  note  to  Murphy.  He'll  send 
your  horse  back  to  Usher  and  let  you  take  a  fresh 
horse  when  you  start  for  the  Concho.  Take  it 
easy,  and  don't  talk." 

"All  right,  boss.     But  I  was  thinkin'  — " 

"What?" 

"Well,  it's  men  like  me  and  you  that  puts 
things  through.  It  takes  a  man  with  sand  to  go 

233 


Sundown  Slim 

around  this  country  gettin'  pinched  and  thrun 
and  burnt  up  and  bein'  arrested  every  time  he 
goes  to  spit.  Folks  '11  be  sayin'  that  there  Sun- 
down gent  is  a  brave  man  —  me !  Never  shot 
nobody  and  dependin'  on  his  nerve,  every 
time.  They's  nothin'  like  havin'  a  bad  repeta- 
tion." 

"Nothing  like  it,"  assented  Corliss,  smiling. 
"Well,  here's  your  road.  Keep  straight  on  till 
you  cross  the  river.  Then  take  the  right  fork  and 
stick  to  it,  and  you'll  ride  right  into  Murphy's. 
He'll  fix  you  up,  all  right." 

"Did  you  think  in  this  note  to  tell  him  to  give 
me  a  boss  that  only  travels  one  way  to  onct?" 
queried  Sundown. 

Corliss  laughed.  "Yes,  I  told  him.  Don't  for- 
get you're  a  citizen  and  a  homesteader.  We're 
depending  on  you." 

"You  bet!  And  I'll  be  there  with  the  bells! " 

Shoop  and  Corliss  watched  Sundown  top  a  dis- 
tant rise  and  disappear  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  Then 
they  walked  back  to  the  station.  As  they  waited 
for  the  local,  Shoop  rolled  a  cigarette.  "Jest 
statin' it  mild  and  gentle,"  he  said, yawning,  "the 
last  couple  of  weeks  has  been  kind  of  a  busy  day. 
Guess  the  fun 's  all  over.  Sundown 's  got  a  flyin' 
start;  Loring's  played  his  ace  and  lost,  and  you 
and  me  is  plumb  sober.  If  I'd  knowed  it  was 

234 


The  Escape 

goin'  to  be  as  quiet  as  this,  I'd  'a'  brought  my 
knittin'  along." 

"There  are  times  ..."  said  Corliss. 

"And  we  got  just  five  minutes,"  said  Shoop. 
"Come  on." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  WALKING  MAN 

SUNDOWN'S  sense  of  the  dramatic,  his  love  for 
posing,  with  his  linguistic  ability  to  adopt  the 
vernacular  of  the  moment  so  impressed  the  tem- 
peramental Murphy  that  he  disregarded  a  por- 
tion of  his  friend  Corliss's  note,  and  the  morning 
following  his  lean  guest's  arrival  at  the  ranch  the 
jovial  Irishman  himself  saddled  and  bridled  the 
swiftest  and  most  vicious  horse  in  the  corral;  a 
glass-eyed  pinto,  bronc  from  the  end  of  his 
switching  tail  to  his  pink-mottled  muzzle.  He 
was  a  horse  with  a  record  which  he  did  not  allow 
to  become  obsolete,  although  he  had  plenty  of 
competition  to  contend  with  in  the  string  of 
broncs  that  Murphy's  riders  variously  bestrode. 
Moreover,  the  pinto,  like  dynamite,  "went  off" 
at  the  most  unexpected  intervals,  as  did  many  of 
his  riders.  Sundown,  bidding  farewell  to  his  host, 
mounted  and  swung  out  of  the  yard  at  a  lope. 
The  pinto  had  ideas  of  his  own.  Should  he  buck 
in  the  yard,  he  would  immediately  be  roped  and 
turned  into  the  corral  again.  Out  on  the  mesas  it 
would  be  different  —  and  it  was. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  a  tumble-weed  gy- 
236 


The  Walking  Man 

rating  across  the  Apache  road.  Neither  did  he 
seem  disturbed  when  a  rattler  burred  in  the 
bunch-grass.  Even  the  startled  leap  of  a  rabbit 
that  shot  athwart  his  immediate  course  was 
greeted  with  nothing  more  than  a  snort  and  a  toss 
of  his  swinging  head.  Such  things  were  excuses 
for  bad  behavior,  but  he  was  of  that  type  which 
furnishes  its  own  excuse.  He  would  lull  his  rider 
to  a  false  security,  and  then  .  .  . 

The  pinto  loped  over  level  and  rise  tirelessly. 
Sundown  stood  in  his  stirrups  and  gazed  ahead. 
The  wide  mesas  glowing  in  the  sun,  the  sense 
of  illimitable  freedom,  the  keen,  odorless  air 
wrought  him  to  a  pitch  of  inspiration.  He  would, 
just  over  the  next  rise,  draw  rein  and  woo  his 
muse.  But  the  next  rise  and  the  next  swept  be- 
neath the  pinto's  rhythmic  hoofs.  The  poetry  of 
motion  swayed  his  soul.  He  was  enjoying  him- 
self. At  last,  he  reflected,  he  had  mastered  the 
art  of  sitting  a  horse.  He  had  already  mastered 
the  art  of  mounting  and  of  descending  under  va- 
rious condition's  and  at  seemingly  impossible 
angles.  As  Hi  Wingle  had  once  remarked  —  Sun- 
down was  the  most  durable  rider  on  the  range. 
His  length  of  limb  had  no  apparent  relation  to 
his  shortcomings  as  a  vaquero. 

Curiosity,  as  well  as  pride,  may  precede  a  fall. 
Sundown  eventually  reined  up  and  breathed  the 
pinto,  which  paced  with  lowered  head  as  though 

237 


Sundown  Slim 

dejected  and  altogether  weary  —  which  was 
merely  a  pose,  if  an  object  in  motion  can  be  said 
to  pose.  His  rider,  relaxing,  slouched  in  the  sad- 
dle and  dreamed  of  a  peaceful  and  domestic  fu- 
ture as  owner  of  a  small  herd  of  cattle,  a  few 
fenced  acres  of  alfalfa  and  vegetables,  a  saddle- 
horse  something  like  the  pinto  which  he  bestrode, 
with  Chance  as  companion  and  audience  —  and 
perhaps  a  low- voiced  senora  to  welcome  him  at 
night  when  he  rode  in  with  spur-chains  jingling 
and  the  silver  conchas  on  his  chaps  gleaming  like 
stars  in  the  setting  sun.  "But  me  chaps  did  their 
last  gleam  in  that  there  fire,"  he  reflected  sadly. 
"But  I  got  me  big  spurs  yet."  Which  after- 
thought served  in  a  measure  to  mitigate  his  mel- 
ancholy. Like  a  true  knight,  he  had  slept  spurred 
and  belted  for  the  chance  encounter  while  held  in 
durance  vile  at  Antelope.  "But  me  ranch!"  he 
exclaimed.  "Me!  And  mebby  a  tame  cow 
and  chickens  and  things, — eh,  Chance!"  But 
Chance,  he  immediately  realized,  was  not  with 
him.  He  would  have  a  windmill  and  shade-trees 
and  a  border  of  roses  along  the  roadway  to  the 
house  —  like  the  Loring  rancho.  But  the  senor- 
ita  to  be  wooed  and  won  —  that  was  a  different 
matter.  "  'T  ain't  no  woman's  country  nohow  — 
this  here  Arizona.  She's  fine!  But  she 's  a  man's 
country  every  time!  Only  sech  as  me  and  Jack 
Corliss  and  Bud  and  them  kind  is  fit  to  take  the 

238 


The  Walking  Man 

risks  of  makin'  good  in  this  here  State.    But 
we're  makin'  good,  you  calico-hoss!     Listen:  - 

"Oh,  there's  sunshine  on  the  Concho  where  the  little  owls 
are  cryin', 

And  red  across  the  'dobe  strings  of  chiles  are  a-dryin'; 
And  if  Arizona 's  heaven,  tell  me  what 's  the  use  of  dyin'  ? 

Yes,  it's  good  enough  down  here,  just  breathin'  air; 

"For  the  posies  are  a-bloomin'  and  the  mockin'-birds  are 
matin', 

And  somewhere  in  Arizona  there's  a  Chola  girl  a-waitin' 
For  to  cook  them  enchiladas  while  I  do  the  irrigatin' 

On  me  little  desert  homestead  over  there. 

"While  I'm  ridin'  slow  and  easy  .  .  . 

"Whoa!  Wonder  what  that  is?  Never  seen  one 
of  them  things  before.  'T  ain't  a  lizard,  but  he 
looks  like  his  pa  was  a  lizard.  Mebby  his  ma  was 
a  toad.  Kind  of  a  Mormon,  I  guess." 

He  leaned  forward  and  gravely  inspected  the 
horned  toad  that  blinked  at  him  from  the  edge  of 
the  grass.  The  pinto  realized  that  his  rider's  at- 
tention was  otherwise  and  thoroughly  occupied. 
With  that  unforgettable  drop  of  head  and  arch  of 
spine  the  horse  bucked.  Sundown  did  an  unpre- 
meditated evolution  that  would  have  won  him 
much  applause  and  gold  had  he  been  connected 
with  a  circus.  He  landed  in  a  clump  of  brush  and 
watched  his  hat  sail  gently  down.  The  pinto 
whirled  and  took  the  homeward  road,  snorting 

239 


Sundown  Slim 

and  bounding  from  side  to  side  as  the  dust 
swirled  behind  him.  Sundown  scratched  his 
head.  "Lemme  see.  'We  was  ridin',  slow  and 
easy  .  .  .'  Huh!  Well,  I  ain't  cussin'  because 
I  don'  know  how.  Lemme  see  ...  I  was  facin' 
east  when  I  started.  Now  I  'm  lit,  and  I  'm  facin' 
south.  Me  hat's  there,  and  that  there  toad- 
lizard  oughter  be  over  there,  if  he  ain't  scared 
to  death.  Reckon  I'll  quit  writin'  po'try  jest  at 
present  and  finish  gettin'  acquainted  with  that 
there  toad-lizard.  Wonder  how  far  I  got  to 
walk?  Anyhow,  I  was  gettin'  tired  of  ridin'.  By 
gum!  me  eats  is  tied  to  the  saddle!  It's  mighty 
queer  how  a  fella  gets  set  back  to  beginnin'  all 
over  ag'in  every  onct  in  a  while.  Now,  this 
mornin'  I  was  settin'  up  ridin'  a  good  boss  and 
thinkin'  poetical.  Now  I'm  settin'  down  restin'. 
The  sun  is  shinin'  yet,  and  them  jiggers  in  the 
brush  is  chirpin'  and  the  air  is  fine,  but  I  ain't 
thinkin'  poetical.  I'd  sure  hate  to  have  a  real 
lady  read  what  I'm  thinkin',  if  it  was  in  a  book. 
'Them  that  sets  on  the  eggs  of  untruth,'  as  the 
parson  says,  'sure  hatches  lies.'  Jest  yesterday  I 
was  tellin'  in  Usher  how  me  bronc  piled  me  when 
I'd  been  ridin'  the  baggage,  which  was  kind  of  a 
hoss-lie.  I  must  'a'  had  it  comin'." 

He  rose  and  stalked  to  the  roadway.  The 
horned  toad,  undisturbed,  squatted  in  the  grass 
and  eyed  him  with  bright,  expressionless  eyes. 

240 


The  Walking  Man 

"If  I  was  like  some,"  said  Sundown,  address- 
ing the  toad,  "I'd  pull  me  six-shooter,  only  I 
ain't  got  it  now,  and  bling  you  to  nothin'.  Ao 
cordin'  to  law  you're  the  injudicious  cause  pre- 
ceding the  act,  which  makes  you  guilty  accordin' 
to  the  statues  of  this  here  commonwealth,  and  I 
seen  lots  of  'em  on  the  same  street,  in  Boston, 
scarin'  bosses  to  death  and  makin'  kids  and  nuss- 
girls  cry.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  shoot  you.  If  I  was 
to  have  the  sayin'  of  it,  I  'd  kind  o'  like  to  shoot 
that  hoss,  though.  He  broke  as  fine  a  pome  in  the 
middle  as  I  ever  writ,  to  say  nothin'  of  hurtin'  me 
personal  feelin's.  Well,  so-long,  leetle  toad- 
lizard.  Just  tell  them  that  you  saw  me  —  and 
they  will  know  the  rest  —  if  anybody  was  to  ask 
you,  a  empty  saddle  and  a  man  a-foot  in  the 
desert  is  sure  circumvential  evidence  ag'in  the 
hoss.  Wonder  how  far  it  is  to  the  Concho?  " 

With  many  a  backward  glance,  inspired  by 
fond  imaginings  that  the  pinto  might  have 
stopped  to  graze,  Sundown  stalked  down  the 
road.  Waif  of  chance  and  devotee  of  the  goddess 
"Maybeso,"  he  rose  sublimely  superior  to  the 
predicament  in  which  he  found  himself.  "The 
only  reason  I  'm  goin'  east  is  because  I  ain't  goin' 
west,"  he  told  himself,  ignoring,  with  warm  ad- 
herence to  the  glowing  courses  of  the  sun  the 
frigid  possibilities  of  the  poles.  Warmed  by  the 
exercise  of  plodding  across  the  mesa  trail  in  high- 

241 


Sundown  Slim 

heeled  boots,  he  swung  out  of  his  coat  and  slung 
it  across  his  shoulder.    Dust  gathered  in   the 
wrinkles  of  his  boots,  and  more  than  once  he 
stopped  to  mop  his  sweating  face  with  his  ban- 
danna.   Rise  after  rise  swept  gently  before  him 
and  within  the  hour  he  saw  the  misty  outline  of 
the  blue  hills  to  the  south.  Slowly  his   moving 
shadow  shifted,  bobbing  in  front  of  him  as  the 
sun  slipped  toward  the  western  horizon.  A  little 
breeze  sighed  along  the  road  and  whirls  of  sand 
spun  in  tiny  cones  around  the  roots  of  the  chap- 
arral.   He  reached  in  his  pocket,  drew  forth  a 
silver  dollar,  and  examined  it.    "Now  if  they 
were  n't  any  folks  on  this  here  earth,  I  reckon 
silver  and  gold  and  precious  jools  would  n't  be 
worth  any  more  than  rocks  and  mud  and  gravel, 
-eh?   Why,  even  if  they  were  n't  no  folks,  water 
would  be  worth  more  to  this  here  world  than  gold. 
Water  makes  things  grow  and  —  and  keeps  a 
fella  from  gettin'  thirsty.  And  mud  makes  things 
grow,  too,  but  I  dunno  what  rocks  are  for.   Just 
to  sit  on  when  you're  tired,  I  reckon."  The  sibil- 
ant burring  of  a  rattler  in  the  brush  set  his  neck 
and  back  tingling.   "And  what  snakes  was  made 
for,  gets  me!    They  ain't  good  to  eat,  nohow. 
And  they  ain't  friendly  like  some  of  the  bugs  and 
things.   I'm  thinkin'  that  that  there  snake  what 
dumb  the  tree  and  got  Mrs.  Eve  interested  in  the 
apple  business  would  'a'  been  a  whole  lot  better 

242 


The  Walking  Man 

for  folks,  if  he  'd  'a'  stayed  up  that  tree  and  died, 
instead  o'  runnin'  around  and  raisin'  young  ones. 
Accordin'  to  my  way  of  thinkin'  a  garden  ain't  a 
garden  with  a  snake  in  it,  nohow.  Now,  Mrs. 
Eve  —  if  she'd  had  to  take  a  hammer  and  nails 
and  make  a  ladder  to  get  to  them  apples,  by  the 
time  she  got  the  ladder  done  I  reckon  them 
apples  would  n't  'a'  looked  so  good  to  her. 
That's  what  comes  of  havin'  a  snake  handy. 
'Course,  bein'  a  woman,  she  jest  nacherally 
could  n't  wait  for  'em  to  get  ripe  and  fall  off  the 
tree.  That  would  'a'  been  too  easy.  It  sure  is 
funny  how  folks  goes  to  all  kinds  o'  trouble  to  get 
into  it.  Mebby  she  did  get  kind  o'  tired  eatin' 
the  same  breakfast-food  every  mornin'.  Lots  o' 
folks  do,  and  hankers  to  try  a  new  one.  But  I 
never  got  tired  of  drinkin'  water  yet.  Wisht  I 
had  a  barrel  with  ice  in  it.  Gee  Gosh!  Ice! 
Mebby  a  cup  of  water  would  be  enough  for  a 
fella,  but  when  he's  dry  he  sure  likes  to  see  lots 
ahead  even  if  he  can't  drink  it  all.  Mebby  it's 
jest  knowin'  it's  there  that  kind  o'  eases  up  a 
fella's  thirst.  I  dunno." 

Romance,  as  romance  was  wont  to  do  at  inter- 
vals, lay  in  wait  for  the  weary  Sundown.  Hunger 
and  thirst  and  a  burning  sun  may  not  be  imme- 
diately conducive  to  poetry  or  romantic  imagin- 
ings. But  the  'dobe  in  the  distance  shaded  by  a 
clump  of  trees,  the  gleam  of  the  drying  chiles,  the 

243 


Sundown  Slim 

glow  of  flowers,  offered  an  acceptable  antithesis 
to  the  barren  roadway  and  the  empty  mesas. 
Sundown  quickened  his  pace.  Eden,  though  cir- 
cumscribed by  a  barb-wire  fence  enclosing  scant 
territory,  invited  him  to  rest  and  refresh  himself. 
And  all  unexpected  the  immemorial  Eve  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  the  'dobe,  gazing  down  the  road 
and  doubtless  wondering  why  this  itinerant 
Adam,  booted  and  spurred,  chose  to  walk  the 
dusty  highway. 

At  the  gate  of  the  homestead  Sundown  paused 
and  raised  his  broad  sombrero.  Anita,  dusky  and 
buxom  daughter  of  Chico  Miguel,  "the  little 
hombre  with  the  little  herd,"  as  the  cattle-men 
described  him,  nodded  a  bashful  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  salute,  and  spoke  sharply  to  the  dog 
which  had  risen  and  was  bristling  toward  the 
strange  wayfarer. 

"Agua,"  said  Sundown,  opening  the  gate, 
"Mueha  agua,  Senorita,"  adding,  with  a  humor- 
ous gesture  of  drinking,  "I'm  dry  clean  to  me 
boots." 

The  Mexican  girl,  slow-eyed  and  smiling, 
gazed  at  this  most  wonderful  man,  of  such  up- 
standing height  that  his  hat  brushed  the  limbs  of 
the  shade-trees  at  the  gateway.  Anita  was  plump 
and  not  tall.  As  Sundown  stalked  up  the  path 
assuming  an  air  of  gallantry  that  was  not  wasted 
on  the  desert  air,  the  girl  stepped  to  the  olla 

244 


The  Walking  Man 

hanging  in  the  shade  and  offered  him  the  gourd. 
Sundown  drank  long  and  deep.  Anita  watched 
him  with  wondering  eyes.  Such  a  man  she  had 
never  seen.  Vaqueros?  Ah,  yes!  many  of  them, 
but  never  such  a  man  as  this.  This  one  smiled, 
yet  his  face  had  much  of  the  sadness  in  it.  He 
had  perhaps  walked  many  weary  miles  in  the 
heat.  Would  he  —  with  a  gesture  interpreting 
her  speech  —  be  pleased  to  rest  awhile?  Without 
hesitation,  he  would.  As  he  sat  on  the  doorstep 
gazing  contentedly  at  the  flowers  bordering  the 
path,  Anita's  mother  appeared  from  some  mys- 
terious recess  of  the  'dobe  and  questioned  Anita 
with  quick  low  utterance.  The  girl's  answer,  in- 
terpretable  to  Sundown  only  by  its  intonation, 
was  music  to  him.  The  Mexican  woman,  more 
than  buxom,  large-eyed  and  placid,  turned  to 
Sundown,  who  rose  and  again  doffed  his  som- 
brero. 

"I  lost  me  horse  —  back  there.  I'm  headed 
for  the  Concho  —  ma'am.  Concho,"  he  reiterated 
in  a  louder  tone.  "Sabe?" 

The  mother  of  Anita  nodded.  "You  sick?" 
she  asked. 

"What?  Me?  Not  on  your  life,  lady!  I'm  the 
healthiest  Ho —  puncher  in  this  here  State.  You 
sabe  Concho?" 

"Si!  Zhack  Corlees  —  'Juan,'  we  say.  Si! 
You  of  him?" 

245 


Sundown  Slim 

"Yes,  lady.  I'm  workin'  for  him.  Lost  me 
boss." 

Anita  and  her  mother  exchanged  glances.  Sun- 
down felt  that  his  status  as  a  vaquero  was  in 
question.  Would  he  let  the  beautiful  Anita  know 
that  he  had  been  ignominiously  "piled"  by  that 
pinto  horse?  Not  he.  "Circumventions  alters 
cases,"  he  soliloquized,  not  altogether  untruth- 
fully. Then  aloud,  "Me  hoss  put  his  foot  in  a 
gopher-hole.  Bruk  his  leg,  and  I  had  to  shoot 
him,  lady.  Hated  to  part  with  him."  And  the 
inventive  Sundown  illustrated  with  telling  ges- 
ture the  imaginary  accident. 

Sympathy  flowed  freely  from  the  gentle- 
hearted  Seiiora  and  her  daughter.  "Si!"  It  was 
not  of  unusual  happening  that  horses  met  with 
such  accidents.  It  was  getting  late  in  the  after- 
noon. Would  the  unfortunate  caballero  accept 
of  their  hospitality  in  the  way  of  frijoles  and 
some  of  the  good  coffee,  perhaps?  Sundown 
would,  without  question.  He  pressed  a  dollar 
into  the  palm  of  the  reluctant  Seiiora.  He  was 
not  a  tramp.  Of  that  she  might  be  assured.  He 
had  met  with  misfortune,  that  was  all.  And 
would  the  patron  return  soon?  The  patron  would 
return  with  the  setting  of  the  sun.  Meanwhile 
the  vaquero  of  the  Concho  was  to  rest  and  per- 
haps enjoy  his  cigarette?  And  the  "vaquero" 
loafed  and  smoked  many  cigarettes  while  the 

246 


The  Walking  Man 

glowing  eyes  of  Anita  shone  upon  him  with  large 
sympathy.  As  yet  Sundown  had  not  especially 
noticed  her,  but  returning  from  his  third  visit  to 
the  cooling  olla,  he  caught  her  glance  and  read, 
or  imagined  he  read,  deep  admiration,  lacking 
words  to  utter.  From  that  moment  he  became  a 
changed  man.  He  shed  his  weariness  as  a  tat- 
tered garment  is  thrown  aside.  He  straightened 
his  shoulders  and  held  his  head  high.  At  last  a 
woman  had  looked  at  him  and  had  not  smiled  at 
his  ungainly  stature.  Nay!  But  rather  seemed 
impressed,  awe-stricken,  amazed.  And  his  heart 
quickened  to  faster  rhythm,  driving  the  blood 
riotously  through  his  imaginative  mind.  He  grew 
eloquent,  in  gesture,  if  not  in  speech.  He  told  of 
his  wanderings,  his  arrival  at  the  Concho,  of 
Chance  his  great  wolf-dog,  his  horse  "Pill,"  and 
his  good  friends  Bud  Shoop  and  Hi  Wingle. 
Sundown  could  have  easily  given  Othello  him- 
self "cards  and  spades"  in  this  chance  game  of 
hearts  and  won  —  moving  metaphor!  —  in  a 
canter.  That  the  little  Senorita  with  the  large 
eyes  did  not  understand  more  than  a  third  of  that 
which  she  heard  made  no  difference  to  her.  His 
ambiguity  of  utterance,  backed  by  assurance  and 
illumined  by  the  divine  fire  of  inspiration,  awak- 
ened curiosity  in  the  placid  breast  of  this  Desde- 
mona  of  the  mesas.  It  required  no  sophistication 
on  her  part  to  realize  that  this  caballero  was  not 

247 


Sundown  Slim 

as  the  vaqueros  she  had  heretofore  known.  He 
made  no  boorish  jests;  his  eyes  were  not  as  the 
eyes  of  many  that  had  gazed  at  her  in  a  way  that 
had  tinged  her  dusky  cheeks  with  warm  resent- 
ment. She  felt  that  he  was  endeavoring  to  inter- 
est her,  to  please  her  rather  than  to  woo.  And 
more  than  that  —  he  seemed  intensely  interested 
in  his  own  brave  eloquence.  A  child  could  have 
told  that  Sundown  was  single-hearted.  And  with 
the  instinct  of  a  child  —  albeit  eighteen,  and 
quite  a  woman  in  her  way  —  Anita  approved  of 
this  adventurer  as  she  had  never  approved  of 
men,  or  man,  before.  His  great  height,  his  long, 
sweeping  arms,  moving  expansively  as  he  illus- 
trated this  or  that  incident,  his  silver  spurs,  his 
loose-jointed  "tout  ensemble,"  so  to  speak,  com- 
bined with  an  eloquent  though  puzzling  manner 
of  speech,  fascinated  her.  Warmed  to  his  work, 
and  forgetful  of  his  employer's  caution  in  regard 
to  certain  plans  having  to  do  with  the  water-hole 
ranch,  Sundown  elaborated,  drawing  heavily  on 
future  possibilities,  among  which  he  towered  in 
imagination  monarch  of  rich  mellow  acres  and 
placid  herds.  He  intimated  delicately  that  a 
rancher's  life  was  lonely  at  best,  and  enriched  the 
tender  intimation  with  the  assurance  that  he  was 
more  than  fond  of  enchiladas,  frijoles,  carne-con- 
chile,  tamales,  adding  as  an  afterthought  that  he 
was  somewhat  of  an  expert  himself  in  "wrastlin' 

248 


The  Walking  Man 

out"  pies  .and  doughnuts  and  various  other  gas- 
tronomical  delicacies. 

A  delicate  frown  touched  the  gentle  Anita's 
smooth  forehead  when  her  mother  interrupted 
Sundown  with  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
plate  of  frijoles,  yet  Anita  realized,  as  she  saw  his 
ardent  expression  when  the  aroma  of  the  coffee 
reached  him,  that  this  was  a  most  sensible  and 
fitting  climax  to  his  glowing  discourse.  Her  frown 
vanished  together  with  the  coffee  and  beans. 

Fortified  by  the  strong  black  coffee  and  the 
nourishing  frijoles,  Sundown  rose  from  his  seat 
on  the  doorstep  and  betook  himself  to  the  back 
of  the  house  where  he  labored  with  an  axe  until 
he  had  accumulated  quite  a  pile  of  firewood. 
Then  he  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  washed  his  hands, 
and  asked  permission  to  prepare  the  evening 
meal.  Although  a  little  astonished,  the  Senora 
consented,  and  watched  Sundown,  at  first  with  a 
smile  of  indulgence,  then  with  awakening  curios- 
ity, and  finally  with  frank  and  complimentary 
amazement  as  he  deftly  kneaded  and  rolled  pie- 
crust and  manufactured  a  pie  that  eventually 
had,  for  those  immediately  concerned,  historical 
significance. 

The  "little  hombre,"  Chico  Miguel,  returning 
to  his  'dobe  that  evening,  was  greeted  with  a  tide 
of  explanatory  utterances  that  swept  him  off  his 
feet.  He  was  introduced  to  Sundown,  apprised 

249 


Sundown  Slim 

of  the  strange  guest's  manifold  accomplishments, 
and  partook  of  the  substantial  evidence  of  his 
skill  until  of  the  erstwhile  generous  pie  there  was 
nothing  left  save  tender  reminiscence  and  replete 
satisfaction. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  the  Arizona  stars 
glowed  and  shimmered  on  the  shadowy  adobe, 
when  the  wide  mesas  grew  mysteriously  beautiful 
in  the  soft  radiance  of  the  slow  moon,  Chico 
Miguel  brought  his  guitar  from  the  bedroom, 
tuned  it,  and  struck  a  swaying  cadence  from  its 
strings.  Then  Anita's  voice,  blending  with  the 
rhythm,  made  melody,  and  Sundown  sat  en- 
tranced. Mood,  environment,  temperament, 
lent  romance  to  the  simple  song.  Every  singing 
string  on  the  old  guitar  was  silver  —  the  singer's 
girlish  voice  a  sunlit  wave  of  gold. 

The  bleak  and  almost  barren  lives  of  these  iso- 
lated folk  became  illumined  with  a  reminiscent 
glow  as*  the  tinkling  notes  of  the  guitar  hushed 
to  faint  echoes  of  fairy  bells  hung  on  the  silver 
boughs  of  starlit  trees.  "Adios,  linda  Rosa," 
ran  the  song.  Then  silence,  the  summer  night, 
the  myriad  stars. 

Sundown,  turning  his  head,  gazed  spellbound 
at  the  dark-eyed  singing  girl.  In  the  dim  light  of 
the  lamp  she  saw  that  his  lean  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ON    THE   MESA 

WITH  the  morning  sun  came  a  brave,  cloudless 
day  and  a  more  jovial  mood  to  Sundown  as  he 
explained  the  necessity  for  haste  to  the  Concho. 
Chico  Miguel  would  gladly  furnish  horse  and  sad- 
dle. Juan  Corlees  was  of  men  the  finest!  Once 
upon  a  time,  in  fact,  Chico  Miguel  had  ridden 
range  for  the  father  of  Sefior  Corlees,  but  that 
was  in  years  long  past,  Ah,  yes !  Then  there  were 
no  sheep  in  the  country  —  nothing  but  cattle  and 
vaqueros.  Would  the  caballero  accept  the  loan 
of  horse  and  saddle?  The  horse  could  be  re- 
turned at  his  convenience.  And  possibly  —  and 
here  Chico  Miguel  paused  to  roll  a  cigarette, 
light  it,  and  smoke  awhile  reflectively  —  and  pos- 
sibly the  caballero  would  again  make  their  hum- 
ble home  beautiful  with  his  presence.  Such  pie 
as  the  Senor  made  was  a  not  unworthy  meal  for 
the  saints.  Indeed,  Chico  Miguel  himself  had 
had  many  pleasant  dreams  following  their  feast 
of  the  evening  before.  Would  Sundown  conde- 
scend to  grace  their  home  with  his  presence  again 
and  soon?  Sundown  would,  be  Gosh!  He  sure 
did  like  music,  especially  them  Spanish  songs 

251 


Sundown  Slim 

what  made  a  fella  kind  of  shivery  and  sad-like 
from  his  boots  up.  And  that  part  of  the  country 
looked  good  to  him.  In  fact  he  was  willing  to  be 
thrun  from  —  er  —  have  his  hoss  step  in  a 
gopher-hole  any  day  if  the  accident  might  ter- 
minate as  pleasantly  as  had  his  late  misfortune. 
He  aspired  to  become  a  master  of  the  art  of  cook- 
ing Mexican  dishes.  'Course  at  reg'lar  plain- 
cookin'  and  deserts  he  was  n't  such  a  slouch,  but 
when  it  come  to  spreadin'  the  chile,  he  was  n't,  as 
yet,  an  expert. 

Meanwhile  he  clung  tenaciously  to  the  few 
Spanish  words  he  knew,  added  to  which  was 
"Linda  Rosa"  —  "pretty  rose,"  —  which  he  in- 
tended to  use  with  telling  effect  when  he  made 
his  adieux.  After  breakfast  he  rose  and  disap- 
peared. When  he  again  entered  the  house  the 
keen  Sefiora  noticed  that  his  shirt  front  swelled 
expansively  just  above  his  heart.  She  wondered 
if  the  tall  one  had  helped  himself  to  a  few  of  her 
beloved  chiles. 

Presently  Chico  Miguel  appeared  with  the 
pony.  Sundown  mounted,  hesitated,  and  then 
nodded  farewell  to  the  Sefiora  and  the  almost 
tearful  Anita  who  stood  in  the  doorway.  Things 
were  not  as  Sundown  would  have  had  them.  He 
was  long  of  arm  and  vigorous,  but  to  cast  a  bou- 
quet of  hastily  gathered  and  tied  flowers  from  the 
gateway  to  the  hand  of  the  Senorita  would  re- 


On  the  Mesa 

quire  a  longer  arm  and  a  surer  aim  than  his. 
"Gee  Gosh!"  he  exclaimed,  dismounting  hur- 
riedly. "What's  that  on  his  hind  foot?" 

He  referred  to  the  horse.  Chico  Miguel,  at  the 
gate,  hastened  to  examine  the  pony,  but  Sun- 
down, realizing  that  the  Senorita  still  stood  be- 
side her  mother,  must  needs  create  further  de- 
lay. He  stepped  to  the  pony  and,  assuming  an 
air  of  experience,  reached  to  take  up  the  horse's 
foot  and  examine  it.  The  horse,  possibly  realiz- 
ing that  its  foot  was  sound,  resented  Sundown's 
solicitude.  The  upshot  —  used  advisedly  —  of 
it  was  that  Sundown  found  himself  sitting  in 
the  road  and  Chico  Miguel  struggling  with  the 
pony. 

With  a  scream  Anita  rushed  to  the  gateway, 
wringing  her  hands  as  Sundown  rose  stiffly  and 
felt  of  his  shirt  front.  The  flowers  that  he  had 
picked  for  his  adored,  were  now  literally  pressed 
to  his  bosom.  He  wondered  if  they  "  were  mushed 
up  much?  "  Yet  he  was  not  unhappy.  His  grand 
climax  was  at  hand.  Again  he  mounted  the  pony, 
turned  to  the  Senorita,  and,  drawing  the  more  or 
less  mangled  blossoms  from  his  shirt,  presented 
them  to  her  with  sweeping  gallantry.  Anita 
blushed  and  smiled.  Sundown  raised  his  hat. 
"Adios!  AdioslMuchaadios!  Sefiorita!  For  you 
sure  are  the  lindaest  little  linda  rosa  of  the  whole 
bunch!"  he  said. 

253 


Sundown  Slim 

And  with  Anita  standing  in  rapt  admiration, 
Chico  Miguel  wondering  if  the  kick  of  the  horse 
had  not  unsettled  the  strange  caballero's  reason, 
and  the  Senora  blandly  aware  that  her  daughter 
and  the  tall  one  had  become  adepts  in  inter- 
preting the  language  of  the  eyes,  Sundown  rode 
away  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  triumphantly  joyous, 
yet  with  a  peculiar  sensation  in  the  region  of  his 
heart,  where  the  horse  had  kicked  him.  When  he 
realized  that  admiring  eyes  could  not  follow  him 
forever,  he  checked  the  horse  and  rubbed  his 
chest. 

"It  hurts,  all  right!  but  hoss-shoes  is  a  sign  of 
luck  —  and  posies  is  a  sign  of  love  —  and  them 
two  signs  sure  come  together  this  mornin'.  'Oh, 
down  in  Arizona  there's  a — 'No,  I  reckon  I 
won't  be  temptin'  Providence  ag'in.  This  boss 
might  have  some  kind  of  a  dislikin'  for  toad- 
lizards  and  po'try  mixed,  same  as  the  other  one. 
I  can  jest  kind  o'  work  the  rest  of  that  poem 
up  inside  and  keep  her  on  the  ice  till  —  er  —  till 
she's  the  right  flavor.  Wonder  how  they're 
makin'  it  at  the  Concho?  Guess  I'll  stir  along. 
Mebby  they're  waitin'  for  me  to  show  up  so's 
they  can  get  busy.  I  dunno.  It  sure  is  wonderful 
what  a  lot  is  dependin'  on  me  these  here  days. 
I'm  gettin'  to  be  kind  of  a  center  figure  in  this 
here  country.  Lemme  see.  Now  I  bruk  jail  — 
hopped  the  Limited,  took  out  me  homesteader 

254 


On  the  Mesa 

papers,  got  thrun  off  a  boss,  slumped  right  into 
love  with  that  sure-enough  Linda  Rosa,  and  got 
kicked  by  another  boss.  And  they  say  I  ain't  a 
enterprisin'  guy!  Gee  Gosh!" 

Never  so  much  at  home  as  when  alone,  the 
mellifluous  Sundown's  imagination  expanded,  till 
it  embraced  the  farthest  outpost  of  his  theme. 
He  became  the  towering  center  of  things  terres- 
trial. The  world  revolved  around  but  one  indi- 
vidual that  glorious  morning,  and  he  generously 
decided  to  let  it  revolve.  He  felt  —  being,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  weird  career,  very  much  in 
love  —  that  Dame  Fortune,  so  long  indifferent 
to  his  modest  aspirations,  had  at  last  recognized 
in  him  a  true  adventurer  worthy  of  her  grace. 
He  was  a  remarkable  man,  physically.  He  con- 
sidered himself  a  remarkable  man  mentally,  and 
he  was,  in  Arizona.  "  Why,"  he  announced  to  his 
horse,  "they's  folks  as  says  they  ain't  no  roman- 
tics left  in  this  here  world !  Huh!  Some  of  them 
writin'  folks  oughter  jest  trail  my  smoke  for  a 
week,  instead  o'  settin'  in  clubs  and  drinkin' 
high-balls  and  expectin'  them  high-balls  to  put 
'em  wise  to  real  life !  Huh !  A  fella 's  got  to  sweat 
it  out  himself.  The  kind  of  romantics  that  comes 
in  a  bottle  ain't  the  real  thing.  Pickles  is  all 
right,  but  they  ain't  cucumbers,  nohow.  Wisht 
I  had  one  —  and  some  salt.  The  stories  them 
guys  write  is  like  pickles,  jest  two  kinds  of  flavor, 

255 


Sundown  Slim 

sweet  and  sour.  Now,  when  I  write  me  life's  his- 
tory she'll  be  a  cucumber  sliced  thin  with  a  few 
of  them  little  red  chiles  to  kind  o'  give  the  right 
kick,  and  mebby  a  leetle  onion  representin'  me 
sentiment,  and  salt  to  draw  out  the  proper 
taste,  and  'bout  three  drops  o'  vinegar  standin' 
for  hard  luck,  and  the  hull  thing  fixed  tasty-like 
on  a  lettuce  leaf,  the  crinkles  representin'  the 
mountings  and  valleys  of  this  here  world,  and 
me  name  on  the  cover  in  red  with  gold  edges. 
Gee  Gosh!" 

The  creak  of  the  saddle,  the  tinkle  of  his  spurs, 
the  springy  stride  of  the  horse  furnished  a  truly 
pastoral  accompaniment  to  Sundown's  "roman- 
tics." 

As  he  rode  down  a  draw,  he  came  suddenly 
upon  two  coyotes  playing  like  puppies  in  the  sun. 
He  reined  up  and  watched  them,  and  his  heart 
warmed  to  their  antics.  "Now,  'most  any  fella 
ridin'  range  would  nacherally  pull  his  gun  and 
bling  at 'em.  What  for?  Search  me!  They  ain't 
botherin'  nobody.  Jest  playin'.  Guess  'most 
any  animals  like  to  play  if  they  was  n't  scared  o' 
gettin'  shot  all  the  time.  Funny  how  some  folks 
got  to  kill  everything  they  see  runnin'  wild. 
What's  the  use?  Now,  mebby  them  coyotes  is  a 
pa  and  ma  thinkin'  o'  settin'  up  ranchin'  and 
raisin'  alfalfa  and  young  ones.  Or  mebby  he's 
just  a-courtin'  her  and  showin'  how  he  can  run 

256 


On  the  Mesa 

and  jump  better  than  any  other  coyote  she  ever 
seen.  I  dunno.  There  they  go.  Guess  they  seen 
me.  Say!  but  they  are  jest  floatin'  across  the 
mesa  —  they  ain't  runnin'.  Goin'  easy,  like  their 
legs  belonged  to  somebody  else  and  they  was  jest 
keepin'  up  with  'em.  So-long,  folks!  Here's 
hopin'  you  get  settled  on  that  coyote-ranch  all 
right!" 

Thus  far  on  his  journey  Sundown  had  enjoyed 
the  pleasing  "local  flavor  of  the  morning  and  his 
imaginings.  The  vinegar,  which  was  to  represent 
"hard  luck,"  had  not  as  yet  been  added  to  the 
salad. 

As  he  ascended  the  gentle  slope  of  the  draw  he 
heard  a  quick,  blunt  sound,  as  though  some  one 
had  struck  a  drum  and  immediately  muffled  the 
reverberations  with  the  hand.  He  was  too  deeply 
immersed  in  himself  to  pay  much  attention  to 
this.  Topping  the  rise,  the  fresh  vista  of  rolling 
mesa,  the  far  blue  hills,  and  a  white  dot  —  the 
distant  Concho  —  awakened  him  to  a  realization 
of  his  whereabouts.  Again  he  heard  that  pecu- 
liar, dull  sound.  He  lifted  his  horse  to  a  lope  and 
swept  along,  the  dancing  shadow  at  his  side  short- 
ening as  noon  overtook  him.  He  was  about  to 
dismount  and  partake  of  the  luncheon  the  kindly 
Senora  had  prepared  for  him,  when  he  changed 
his  mind.  "Lunch  and  hunch  makes  a  rhyme," 
he  announced.  "And  I  got 'em  both.  Guess  I '11 

257 


Sundown  Slim 

jog  along  and  eat  at  the  Concho.  Mebby  I  '11  get 
there  in  two,  three  hours." 

As  the  white  dot  took  on  a  familiar  outline  and 
the  eastern  wall  of  the  canon  of  the  Concho 
showed  sharply  against  the  sky,  he  saw  a  horse- 
man, strangely  doubled  up  in  the  saddle,  riding 
across  the  mesa  toward  the  ranch-house.  Evi- 
dently he  also  was  going  to  the  Concho.  Possibly 
it  was  Bud,  or  Hi  Wingle,  or  Lone  Johnny.  Fol- 
lowing an  interval  of  attending  strictly  to  the 
trail  he  raised  his  eyes.  He  pulled  his  horse  up 
and  sat  blinking.  Where  there  had  been  a  horse 
and  rider  there  was  but  the  horse,  standing  with 
lowered  head.  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  palm 
and  gazed  again.  There  stood  the  horse.  The 
man  had  disappeared.  "Fell  into  one  of  them 
Injun  graves,"  remarked  Sundown.  "Guess  I'll 
go  see." 

It  took  much  longer  than  he  had  anticipated 
to  come  up  with  the  riderless  horse.  He  recog- 
nized it  as  one  of  the  Concho  ponies.  Almost  be- 
neath the  animal  lay  a  huddled  something.  Sun- 
down's scalp  tingled.  Slowly  he  got  from  his 
horse  and  stalked  across  the  intervening  space. 
He  led  the  pony  from  the  tumbled  shape  on  the 
ground.  Then  he  knelt  and  raised  the  man's 
shoulders.  Sinker,  one  of  the  Concho  riders, 
groaned  and  tore  at  the  shirt  over  his  stomach. 
Then  Sundown  knew.  He  eased  the  cowboy 

258 


GOD  A'MIGHTY,   SECH  THINGS  IS  WRONG 


On  the  Mesa 

back  and  called  his  name.    Slowly  the  gray  lids 
opened.    "It's  me,  Sundown!    Who  done  it?" 

The  cowboy  tried  to  rise  on  his  elbow.  Sun- 
down supported  his  head,  questioning  him,  for 
he  knew  that  Sinker  had  but  little  time  left  to 
speak.  The  wounded  man  writhed  impotently, 
then  quieted. 

"God,  Sun!"  he  moaned,  "they  got  me.  Tell 
Jack  —  Mexican  —  Loring  —  sheep  at  —  water- 
hole.  Tried  to  bluff  —  'em  off  —  orders  not  to 
shoot.  They  got  orders  to  shoot  —  all  right. 
Tell  Jack  —  Guess  I'm  bleedin'  inside  —  So- 
long  —  pardner." 

The  dying  man  writhed  from  Sundown's  arms 
and  rolled  to  his  face,  cursing  and  clutching  at 
the  grass  in  agony.  Sundown  stood  over  him,  his 
hat  off,  his  gaze  lifted  toward  the  cloudless  sky, 
his  face  white  with  a  new  and  strange  emotion. 
He  raised  his  long  arms  and  clenched  his  hands. 
"  God  A 'mighty,"  he  whispered,  rocking  back  and 
forth,  "I  got  to  tell  You  that  sech  things  is  wrong. 
And  from  what  I  seen  sence  I  come  to  this  coun- 
try, You  don't  care.  But  some  of  us  does  care 
.  .  .  and  I  reckon  we  got  to  do  somethin'  if  You 
don't." 

The  cowboy  raised  himself  on  rigid  arms,  he 
lifted  his  head,  and  his  eyes,  filmed  with  the  chill 
of  death,  grew  clear  for  an  instant.    "  'Sandro  - 
the   herder  —  got   me,"   he   gasped.     His   lips 

259 


Sundown  Slim 

writhed  back  from  his  clenched  teeth.  A  rush  of 
blood  choked  him.  He  sank  to  the  ground,  quiv- 
ered, and  was  still. 

"'Sandro  .  .  .  the  herder"  .  .  .  whispered  Sun- 
down. "Sinker  was  me  friend.  I  reckon  God's 
got  to  leave  the  finish  of  this  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WAIT! 

To  see  a  man's  life  go  out  and  to  stand  by  un- 
able to  help,  unable  to  offer  comfort  or  ease  mor- 
tal agony,  is  a  bitter  experience.  It  brings  the  be- 
holder close  to  the  abyss  of  eternity,  wherein  the 
world  shrinks  to  a  speck  of  whirling  dust  and  the 
sun  is  but  a  needle-point  of  light.  Then  it  is  that 
the  fleshless  face  of  the  unconquerable  One  leans 
close  and  whispers,  not  to  the  insensate  clay  that 
mocks  the  living,  but  to  the  impotent  soul  that 
mourns  the  dead. 

That  Sundown  should  consider  himself  mor- 
ally bound  to  become  one  of  those  who  he  knew 
would  avenge  the  killing  of  the  cowboy,  and 
without  recourse  to  law,  was  not  altogether 
strange.  The  iron  had  entered  his  soul.  Hereto- 
fore at  loose  ends  with  the  world,  the  finding  of 
Sinker,  dying  on  the  mesas,  kindled  within  him 
righteous  wrath  against  the  circumstance  rather 
than  the  individual  slayer.  His  meandering 
thoughts  and  emotions  became  crystallized.  His 
energies  hardened  to  a  set  purpose.  He  was  ob- 
sessed with  a  fanaticism  akin  to  that  of  those  who 
had  burned  witches  and  thanked  their  Maker  for 
the  opportunity. 

261 


Sundown  Slim 

In  his  simple  way  he  wondered  why  he  had  not 
wept.  He  rode  slowly  to  the  Concho.  Chance 
leaped  circling  about  his  horse.  He  greeted  the 
dog  with  a  word.  When  he  dismounted,  Chance 
cringed  and  crept  to  him.  Without  question 
this  was  his  master,  and  yet  there  was  something 
in  Sundown's  attitude  that  silenced  the  dog's 
joyous  welcoming.  Chance  sat  on  his  haunches, 
whined,  and  did  his  best  by  his  own  attitude  to 
show  that  he  was  in  sympathy  with  his  master's 
strange  mood. 

John  Corliss  saw  instantly  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong,  and  his  hearty  greeting  lapsed  into 
terse  questioning.  Sundown  pointed  toward  the 
northern  mesas. 

"What's  up?"  he  queried. 

"Sinker  —  he's  dead  —  over  there." 

"Sinker?"  Corliss  ran  to  the  corral,  calling  to 
Wingle,  who  came  from  the  bunk-house.  The 
cook  whisked  off  his  apron,  grabbed  his  hat,  and 
followed  Corliss.  "Sinker's  done  for!"  said  Cor- 
liss. "Saddle  up,  Hi.  Sun  found  him  out  there. 
Must  have  had  trouble  at  the  water-hole.  I 
should  have  sent  another  man  with  him." 

Wingle,  with  the  taciturnity  of  the  plainsman, 
jerked  the  cinchas  tight  and  swung  to  the  saddle. 
Sinker's  death  had  come  like  a  white-hot  flash 
of  lightning  from  the  bulked  clouds  that  had 
shadowed  disaster  impending  —  and  in  that 


Wait! 

shadow  the  three  men  rode  silently  toward 
the  north.  Again  Corliss  questioned  Sundown. 
Tense  with  the  stress  of  an  emotion  that  all  but 
sealed  his  lips,  Sundown  turned  his  white  face  to 
Corliss  and  whispered,  "Wait!"  The  rancher 
felt  that  that  one  terse,  whispered  word  implied 
more  than  he  cared  to  imagine.  There  was  some- 
thing uncanny  about  the  man.  If  the  killing  of 
Sinker  could  so  change  the  timorous,  kindly  Sun- 
down to  this  grim,  unbending  epitome  of  lean 
death  and  vengeance,  what  could  he  himself  do  to 
check  the  wild  fury  of  his  riders  when  they  heard 
of  their  companion's  passing  from  the  sun? 

Sinker's  horse,  grazing,  lifted  its  head  and 
nickered  as  they  rode  up.  They  dismounted  and 
turned  the  body  over.  Wingle,  kneeling,  exam- 
ined the  cowboy's  six-gun. 

Corliss,  in  a  burst  of  wrath,  turned  on  Sun- 
down. "Damn  you,  open  your  mouth.  What  do 
you  know  about  this?" 

Sundown  bit  his  nails  and  glowered  at  Corliss. 
"God  A 'mighty  sent  me  —  "he  began. 

With  a  swift  gesture  Corliss  interrupted. 
"You're  working  for  the  Concho.  Was  he  dead 
when  you  found  him?" 

Sundown  slowly  raised  his  arm  and  pointed 
across  the  mesa. 

Corliss  fingered  his  belt  and  bit  his  lip  impa- 
tiently. 

263 


Sundown  Slim 

"A  herder  —  over  there  to  my  ranch  —  done 
it.  Sinker  told  me  —  'fore  he  crossed  over.  Said 
it  was  'Sandro.  Said  he  had  orders  not  to 
shoot.  He  tried  to  bluff  'em  off,  for  they  was 
bringin'  sheep  to  the  water-hole.  He  said  to 
tell  you." 

Corliss  and  Wingle  turned  from  looking  at 
Sundown  and  gazed  at  each  other.  "If  that's 
right  — "  And  the  rancher  hesitated. 

"I  reckon  it's  right,"  said  Wingle.  And  he 
stooped  and  together  they  lifted  the  body  and 
laid  it  across  the  cowboy's  horse. 

Sundown  watched  them  with  burning  eyes. 
"We'll  ride  back  home,"  said  Corliss,  motioning 
to  him. 

"Home?    Ain't  you  goin'  to  do  nothin'?" 

Corliss  shook  his  head.  Sundown  slowly 
mounted  and  followed  them  to  the  Concho.  He 
watched  them  as  they  carried  Sinker  to  the  bunk- 
house. 

When  Corliss  reappeared,  Sundown  strode  up 
to  him.  "This  here  boss  belongs  to  that  leetle 
Mexican  on  the  Apache  road,  Chico  Miguel  — 
said  you  knowed  him.  I  was  goin'  to  take  him 
back  with  my  hoss.  Now  I  reckon  I  can't.  I 
kind  o'  liked  it  over  there  to  his  place.  I  guess  I 
want  my  own  hoss,  Pill." 

"I  guess  you  better  get  something  to  eat  and 
rest  up.  You're  in  bad  shape,  Sun." 

264 


Wait! 

Sundown  shook  his  head.  "I  got  somethin'  to 
do  —  after  that  mebby  I  can  rest  up.  Can  I  have 
me  hoss?" 

"Yes,  if  it'll  do  you  any  good.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"I  got  me  homesteader  papers.  I'm  goin'  to 
me  ranch." 

"But  you're  not  outfitted.  There's  no  grub 
there.  You  better  take  it  easy.  You  '11  feel  better 
to-morrow." 

"I  don't  need  no  outfit.  I  reckon  I'll  saddle 
Pill." 

Sundown  turned  the  Mexican's  pony  into  the 
corral  and  saddled  his  own  horse  which  he  led 
to  the  bunk-house.  "  I  ain't  got  no  gun,"  he  said. 
"The  sheriff  gent's  got  mine.  Mebby  you'd  be 
lendin'  me  one?" 

Wingle  stepped  to  the  doorway  and  stood  be- 
side Corliss.  "What  does  he  want,  Jack?" 

"He's  loco.  Wants  to  borrow  a  gun."  The 
rancher  turned  to  Sundown.  "See  here,  Sun, 
there 's  no  use  thinking  you ' ve  got  to  take  a  hand 
in  this.  Some  of  the  boys  '11  get  the  Mexican 
sure!  I  can't  stop  them,  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
get  in  trouble." 

"No.  You  come  on  in  and  eat,"  said  Wingle. 
"You  got  a  touch  of  sun,  I  guess." 

Sundown  mounted.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  do 
nothin'?"  he  asked  again. 

265 


Sundown  Slim 

Corliss  and  Wingle  glanced  at  each  other.  "No, 
not  now." 

"Then  me  and  Chance  is,"  said  Sundown. 
"Come  on,  Chance." 

Corliss  and  the  cook  watched  the  tall  figure  as 
it  passed  through  the  gateway  and  out  to  the 
mesa.  "I'll  go  head  him  off,  if  you  say  the  word, 
Jack." 

Corliss  made  a  negative  gesture.  "He'll  come 
back  when  he  gets  hungry.  It's  a  long  ride  to  the 
water-hole.  Sinker  had  sand  to  get  as  near  home 
as  he  did.  It's  going  to  be  straight  hell  from  now 
on,  Hi." 

Wingle  nodded.  Through  force  of  habit  he 
reached  for  his  apron  to  wipe  his  hand  —  his 
invariable  preliminary  before  he  shook  hands 
with  any  one.  His  apron  being  off,  he  hesitated, 
then  stepped  to  his  employer.  "It  sure  is,"  he 
said,  "and  I'm  ridin'  with  you." 

They  shook  hands.  Moved  by  a  mutual  im- 
pulse they  glanced  at  the  long,  rigid  shape  cov- 
ered with  a  blanket.  "When  the  boys  come  — " 
began  Wingle. 

"It  will  be  out  of  our  hands,"  concluded  Cor- 
liss. 

"If  Sun  - 

"I  ought  to  ride  out  after  him,"  said  Corliss, 
nodding.  "But  I  can't  leave.  And  you  can't." 

Wingle  stepped  to  the  doorway  and  shaded 
266 


Wait! 

his  eyes.  Far  out  on  the  mesa  the  diminishing 
figure  of  a  horseman  showed  black  against  the 
glare  of  the  sun.  Wingle  turned  and,  with  a 
glance  at  the  shrouded  figure  on  the  bunk-house 
floor,  donned  his  apron  and  shuffled  to  the 
kitchen.  Corliss  tied  his  horse  and  strode  to  the 
office. 

Hi  Wingle  puttered  about  the  kitchen.  There 
would  be  supper  to  get  for  fifteen  hungry  —  No ! 
fourteen,  to-night.  He  paused,  set  down  the  pan 
that  he  held  and  opened  the  door  of  the  chuck- 
room.  With  finger  marking  the  count  he  totaled 
the  number  of  chairs  at  the  table.  Fifteen.  Then 
he  stepped  softly  to  the  bunk-room,  took  Sinker's 
hat  and  stepped  back  to  the  table.  He  placed  the 
hat  on  the  dead  cowboy's  chair.  Then  he  closed 
the  door  and  turned  to  the  preparation  of  the 
evening  meal.  "Jack '11  report  to  Antelope  and 
try  and  keep  the  boys  quiet.  I'm  sure  with  Jack 
—  only  I  was  a  puncher  first  afore  I  took  to 
cookin'.  And  I'm  a  puncher  yet  —  inside." 
Which  was  his  singular  and  only  spoken  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  Sinker.  He  had  reasoned  that 
it  was  only  right  and  fitting  that  the  slayer  of  a 
cowman  should  be  slain  by  a  cowman  —  a  code 
that  held  good  in  his  time  and  would  hold  good 
now  —  especially  when  the  boys  saw  the  bat- 
tered Stetson,  every  line  of  which  was  mutely 
eloquent  of  its  owner's  individuality. 

267 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  drifted  through  the  afternoon  soli- 
tudes, his  mind  dulled  by  the  monotony  of  the 
theme  which  obsessed  him.  It  was  evening  when 
he  reached  the  water-hole.  Around  the  enclos- 
ure straggled  a  few  stray  sheep.  He  cautioned 
Chance  against  molesting  them.  Ordinarily  he 
would  have  approached  the  ranch-house  timidly, 
but  he  was  beyond  fear.  He  rode  to  the  gate, 
tied  his  horse,  and  stepped  to  the  doorway.  The 
door  was  open.  He  entered  and  struck  a  match. 
In  the  dusk  he  saw  that  the  room  was  empty 
save  for  a  tarpaulin  and  a  pair  of  rawhide  kyacks 
such  as  the  herders  use.  Examining  the  kyacks 
he  found  that  they  contained  flour,  beans,  salt, 
sugar,  and  coffee.  Evidently  the  herders  had  in- 
tended making  the  deserted  ranch-house  their 
headquarters.  He  wondered  vaguely  where  the 
Mexicans  were.  The  thought  that  they  might 
return  did  not  worry  him.  He  knew  what  he 
would  do  in  that  instance.  He  would  find  out 
which  one  was  'Sandro  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 

The  bleating  of  the  stray  sheep  annoyed  him. 
He  told  Chance  to  stay  in  the  room.  Then  he 
stalked  out  and  opened  the  gate.  "Mebby  they 
want  water.  I  dunno.  Them's  Loring's  sheep, 
all  right,  but  they  ain't  to  blame  for  —  for 
Sinker."  With  the  idea  came  a  more  reasonable 
mood.  The  sheep  were  not  to  blame  for  the  kill- 
ing of  Sinker.  The  sheep  belonged  to  Loring. 

268 


Wait! 

The  herders,  also,  practically  belonged  to  Loring. 
They  were  only  following  his  bidding  when  they 
protected  the  sheep.  With  such  reasoning  he 
finally  concluded  that  Loring,  not  his  herder, 
was  responsible  for  the  cowboy's  death.  He  re- 
turned to  the  house,  built  a  fire,  and  cooked  an 
indifferent  meal. 

Sundown  sat  up  suddenly.  In  the  dim  light  of 
the  moon  flickering  through  the  dusty  panes  he 
saw  Chance  standing  close  to  the  door  with  neck 
bristling  and  head  lowered.  Throwing  back  his 
blanket  he  rose  and  whispered  to  the  dog. 
Chance  came  to  him  obediently.  Sundown  saw 
that  the  dog  was  trembling.  He  motioned  him 
back  and  stepped  to  the  door.  His  slumbers  had 
served  to  restore  him  to  himself  in  a  measure. 
His  old  timidity  became  manifest  as  he  hesitated, 
listening.  In  the  absolute  silence  of  the  night  he 
thought  he  heard  a  shuffling  as  of  something 
being  dragged  across  the  enclosure.  Tense  with 
anticipating  he  knew  not  what,  he  listened. 
Again  he  heard  that  peculiar  slithering  sound. 
He  opened  the  door  an  inch  and  peered  out.  In 
the  pallid  glow  of  the  moon  he  beheld  a  shapeless 
object  that  seemed  to  be  crawling  toward  him. 
Something  in  the  helpless  attitude  of  the  object 
suggested  Sinker  as  he  had  risen  on  his  arm,  en- 
deavoring to  tell  of  the  disaster  which  had  over- 

269 


Sundown  Slim 

taken  him.  With  a  gesture  of  scorn  at  his  own 
fear  he  swung  open  the  door.  Chance  crept  at  his 
heels,  whining.  Then  Sundown  stepped  out  and 
stood  gazing  at  the  strange  figure  on  the  ground. 
Not  until  a  groan  of  agony  broke  the  utter  silence 
did  he  realize  that  the  night  had  brought  to  him 
a  man,  wounded  and  suffering  terribly.  "Who 
are  you?"  he  questioned,  stooping  above  the 
man.  The  other  dragged  himself  to  Sundown's 
feet  and  clawed  at  his  knees.  "'Sandro  .  .  . 
It  is  —  that  I  —  die.  You  don'  keel  .  .  .  You 
don'  .  .  ." 

Sundown  dragged  the  herder  to  the  house  and 
into  the  bedroom.  He  got  water,  for  which  the 
herder  called  piteously.  With  his  own  blanket 
he  made  him  as  comfortable  as  he  could.  Then 
he  built  a  fire  that  he  might  have  light.  The 
herder  was  shot  through  the  thigh,  and  had  all 
but  bled  to  death  dragging  himself  across  the 
mesa  from  where  he  had  fallen  from  his  horse. 
Sundown  tried  to  stop  the  bleeding  with  strips 
torn  from  his  bandanna.  Meanwhile  the  wounded 
man  was  imploring  him  not  to  kill  him. 

"I'm  doin'  me  best  to  fix  you  up,  Dago,"  said 
Sundown.  "But  you  better  go  ahead  and  say 
them  prayers  —  and  you  might  put  in  a  couple 
for  Sinker  what  you  shot.  I  reckon  his  slug  cut 
the  big  vein  and  you  got  to  go.  Wisht  I  could  do 
somethin'  ...  to  help  .  .  .  you  stay  .  .  .  but 

270 


Wait! 

mebby  it 's  better  that  you  cross  over  easy.  Then 
the  boys  don't  get  you." 

The  Mexican  seemed  to  understand.  He  nod- 
ded, as  he  lay  gazing  at  the  lean  figure  illumined 
by  the  dancing  light  of  the  open  stove.  "Si. 
You  good  hombre,  si,"  he  gasped. 

Sundown  frowned.  "Now,  don't  you  take  any 
idea  like  that  along  to  glory  with  you.  Sinker  — 
what  you  shot  —  was  me  friend.  I  ought  to  kill 
you  like  a  snake.  But  God  A'mighty  took  the 
job  off  me  hands.  I  reckon  that  makes  me  square 
with  —  with  Sinker  —  and  Him." 

Again  Sundown  brought  water  to  the  herder. 
Gently  he  raised  his  head  and  held  the  cup  to  his 
lips.  Chance  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
strangely  subdued,  yet  he  watched  each  move- 
ment of  his  master  with  alert  eyes.  The  moon- 
light faded  from  the  window  and  the  fire  died 
down.  The  air  became  chill  as  the  faint  light  of 
dawn  crept  in  to  emphasize  the  ghastly  picture  — 
the  barren,  rough-boarded  room,  the  rusted 
stove,  the  towering  figure  of  Sundown,  impas- 
sively waiting;  and  the  shattered,  shrunken  figure 
of  the  Mexican,  hopeless  and  helpless,  as  the 
morning  mesas  welcomed  the  golden  glow  of 
dawn  and  a  new  day. 

The  herder,  despite  his  apparent  torpor,  was 
the  first  to  hear  the  faint  thud  of  hoofs  in  the 
loose  sand  of  the  roadway.  He  grew  instantly 

271 


Sundown  Slim 

alert,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow  and  gazing 
with  fear-wide  eyes  toward  the  south. 

Sundown  nodded.  "It's  the  boys,"  he  said,  as 
though  speaking  to  himself.  "I  was  hopin'  he 
could  die  easy.  I  dunno." 

'Sandro  raised  his  hands  and  implored  Sun- 
down to  save  him  from  the  riders.  Sundown 
stepped  to  the  window.  He  saw  the  flash  of 
spurs  and  bits  as  a  group  of  the  Concho  boys 
swept  down  the  road.  One  of  them  was  leading  a 
riderless  horse.  In  a  flash  he  realized  that  they 
had  found  the  herder's  horse  and  had  tracked 
'Sandro  to  the  water-hole.  He  backed  away 
from  the  window  and  reaching  down  took  the 
Mexican's  gun  from  its  holster.  "  'T  ain't  what 
I  figured  on,"  he  muttered.  "They 's  me  friends, 
but  this  is  me  ranch." 

With  a  rush  and  a  slither  of  hoofs  in  the  loose 
sand  the  Concho  riders,  headed  by  Shoop,  swung 
up  to  the  gate  and  dismounted.  Sundown  stepped 
to  the  doorway,  Chance  beside  him. 

Shoop  glanced  quickly  at  the  silent  figure. 
Then  his  gaze  drifted  to  the  ground. 

"'Mornin',  Sun!  Seen  anybody  'round  here 
this  mornin'?" 

"Mornin',  fellas.  Nope.  Just  me  and  Chance." 

The  men  hesitated,  eyeing  Sundown  suspi- 
ciously. 

Corliss  stepped  toward  the  ranch-house. 
272 


Wait! 

"Guess  we'll  look  in,"  he  said,  and  stepped  past 
Shoop. 

Sundown  had  closed  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 
He  was  at  a  loss  to  prevent  the  men  entering  the 
house,  but  once  within  the  house  he  determined 
that  they  should  not  enter  the  bedroom. 

He  backed  toward  it  and  stood  with  one  shoul- 
der against  the  lintel.  "Come  right  in.  I  ain't 
got  to  housekeepin'  yet,  but  .  .  ." 

He  ceased  speaking  as  he  saw  Corliss's  gaze 
fixed  on  the  kyacks.  "Where  did  you  get  'em?" 
queried  the  rancher. 

The  men  crowded  in  and  gazed  curiously  at 
the  kyacks  —  then  at  Sundown. 

Shoop  strode  forward.  "The  game's  up,  Sun. 
We  want  the  Mexican." 

"This  is  me  ranch,"  said  Sundown.  "I  got  the 
papers  —  here.  You  fellas  is  sure  welcome  — 
only  they  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  shootin'  or  such- 
like. I  ain't  joshin'  this  time." 

A  voice  broke  the  succeeding  silence.  "If  the 
Mexican  is  in  there,  we  want  him  —  that 's 
all." 

Sundown's  eyes  became  bright  with  a  peculiar 
expression.  Slowly  —  yet  before  any  one  could 
realize  his  intent  —  he  reached  down  and  drew 
the  Mexican's  gun.  "You're  me  friends,"  he 
said  quietly.  "He's  in  there  —  dyin'.  I  reckon 
Sinker  got  him.  He  drug  himself  here  last  night 

273 


Sundown  Slim 

and  I  took  him  in.  This  is  me  home  —  and  if 
you  fellas  is  men,  you'll  let  him  die  easy  and 
quiet." 

"I'm  from  Missouri,"  said  Shoop,  with  a  hard 
laugh.  "You  got  to  show  me  that  he's  —  like 
you  say,  or  — " 

Sundown  leveled  his  gun  at  Shoop.  "I  ain't 
lyin'  to  you,  Bud.  Sinker  was  me  friend.  And  I 
ain't  lyin'  when  I  says  that  the  fust  fella  that 
tries  to  tech  him  crosses  over  afore  he  does." 

Some  one  laughed.  Corliss  touched  Shoop's 
arm  and  whispered  to  him.  With  a  curse  the 
foreman  turned  and  the  men  clumped  out  to 
the  yard. 

"He's  right,"  said  Corliss.  "We'll  wait." 

They  stood  around  talking  and  commenting 
upon  Sundown's  defense  of  the  Mexican. 

"'Course  we  could  'a'  got  him,"  said  Shoop, 
"but  it  don't  set  right  with  me  to  be  stood  up  by 
a  tenderfoot.  Sundown's  sure  loco." 

"I  don't  know,  Bud.  He's  queer,  all  right,  but 
this  is  his  ranch.  He's  got  a  right  to  order  us 
out." 

Shoop  was  about  to  retort  when  Sundown 
came  to  the  doorway.  "I  guess  you  can  come  in 
now,"  he  said.  "And  you  won't  need  no  gun." 

The  men  shuffled  awkwardly,  and  finally  led 
by  Corliss  they  filed  into  the  room  and  one  by 
one  they  stepped  to  the  open  door  of  the  bed- 

274 


Wait! 

room  and  gazed  within.  Then  they  filed  out  si- 
lently. 

"I'll  send  over  some  grub,"  said  Corliss  as 
they  mounted.  Sundown  nodded. 

The  band  of  riders  moved  slowly  back  toward 
the  Concho.  About  halfway  on  their  homeward 
journey  they  met  Loring  in  a  buckboard.  The 
old  sheep-man  drove  up  and  would  have  passed 
them  without  speaking  had  not  Corliss  reined 
across  the  road  and  halted  him. 

"One  of  your  herders  —  'Sandro  —  is  over  at 
the  water-hole,"  said  Corliss.  "If  you're  headed 
for  Antelope,  you  might  stop  by  and  take  him 
along." 

Loring  glared  at  the  Concho  riders,  seemed 
about  to  speak,  but  instead  clucked  to  his  team. 
The  riders  reined  out  of  his  way  and  he  swept 
past,  gazing  straight  ahead,  grim,  silent,  and  ut- 
terly without  fear.  He  understood  the  rancher's 
brief  statement,  and  he  already  knew  of  the  kill- 
ing of  Sinker.  'Sandro's  assistant,  becoming 
frightened,  had  left  his  wounded  companion  on 
the  mesas,  and  had  ridden  to  the  Loring  rancho 
with  the  story  of  the  fight  and  its  ending. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   PEACEMAKER 

"BuT  I  ain't  no  dove  —  more  like  a  stork,  I 
guess,"  reflected  Sundown  as  he  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  his  house.  "And  storks  brings  respon- 
sibilities in  baskets,  instead  of  olive  branches. 
No  wonder  ole  man  Noah  fired  the  dove  right 
out  ag'in  —  bringin'  him  olives  what  wa'n't 
pickled,  instead  of  a  bunch  of  grapes  or  some- 
thin'  you  can  eat!  And  that  there  dove  never 
come  back.  I  reckon  he  figured  if  he  did,  ole  man 
Noah  'd  shoot  him.  Anyhow,  if  I  ain't  no  dove  of 
peace,  I  'm  goin'  to  do  the  best  I  can.  Everybody 
'round  here  seems  like  they  was  try  in'  to  ride 
right  into  trouble  wishful,  'stead  of  reinin'  to  one 
side  an'  givin'  trouble  a  chance  to  get  past.  Gee 
Gosh !  If  I  'd  'a'  knowed  what  I  know  now  — 
afore  I  hit  this  country  —  but  I'm  here.  Any- 
how, they 's  nothin'  wrong  with  the  country.  It 's 
the  folks,  like  it  'most  always  is.  Reckon  I  ought 
to  keep  on  buildin'  fence  this  mornin',  but  that 
there  peace  idea  's  got  to  singin'  in  me  head.  I'll 
jest  saddle  up  Pill  and  ride  over  and  tell  ole  man 
Loring  that  I'm  takin'  care  of  his  sheep  charit- 
able what's  been  hangin'  around  here  since 

276 


The  Peacemaker 

'Sandro  passed  over.  Mebby  that'll  kind  o' 
start  the  talk.  Then  I  can  slip  him  a  couple  of 
ideas  'bout  how  neighbors  ought  to  act.  Huh! 
Me  nussin'  them  sheep  for  two  weeks  and  more, 
an'  me  just  dyin'  for  a  leetle  taste  o'  mutton. 
Mebby  his  herders  was  scared  to  come  for  'em. 
I  dunno." 

Sundown  was  established  at  the  water-hole. 
Corliss  had  sent  a  team  to  Antelope  for  provi- 
sions, implements,  and  fencing.  Meanwhile, 
Sundown  had  been  industrious,  not  alone  because 
he  felt  the  necessity  for  something  to  occupy  his 
time,  but  that  he  wanted  to  forget  the  tragedy 
he  had  so  recently  witnessed.  And  he  had  dreams 
of  a  more  companionable  future  which  included 
Mexican  dishes  served  hot,  evenings  of  blissful 
indolence  accompanied  by  melody,  and  a  Senora 
who  would  sing  "Linda  Rosa,  Adios!"  which 
would  be  the  "piece  de  resistance"  of  his  pas- 
toral menu. 

The  "tame  cow,"  which  he  had  so  ardently 
longed  for,  now  grazed  soulfully  in  a  temporary 
enclosure  out  on  the  mesa.  Two  young  and 
sprightly  black  pigs  prospected  the  confines  of 
their  littered  hermitage.  Four  gaunt  hens  and  a 
more  or  less  dilapidated  rooster  stalked  about  the 
yard,  no  longer  afraid  of  the  watchful  Chance, 
who  had  previously  introduced  himself  to  the 

277 


Sundown  Slim 

rooster  without  the  formality  of  Sundown's  pres- 
ence as  mediator.  Sundown  was  proud  of  his 
chickens.  The  cow,  however,  had  been,  at  first, 
rather  a  disappointment  to  him.  Milk  had  not 
heretofore  been  a  conspicuous  portion  of  Sun- 
down's diet,  nor  was  he  versed  in  the  art  of  ob- 
taining it  except  over  the  counter  in  tins.  With 
due  formality  and  some  trepidation  he  had 
placed  a  pail  beneath  "Gentle  Annie"  as  he 
called  her,  and  had  waited  patiently.  So  had 
Gentle  Annie,  munching  a  reflective  cud,  and 
Sundown,  in  a  metaphorical  sense,  doing  like- 
wise. He  had  walked  around  the  cow  inspecting 
her  with  an  anxious  and  critical  eye.  She  seemed 
healthful  and  voluptuously  contented.  Yet  no 
milk  came.  Bud  Shoop,  having  at  that  moment 
arrived  with  the  team,  sized  up  the  situation. 
When  he  had  recovered  enough  poise  to  stand 
without  assistance  and  had  wiped  the  wild  tears 
from  his  eyes,  he  instructed  the  amazed  Sundown 
as  to  certain  manipulations  necessary  to  produce 
the  desired  result.  "Huh!  Folks  says  cows  give 
milk.  But  I  reckon  that  ain't  right,"  Sundown 
had  asserted.  "You  got  to  take  it  away  from 
'em."  So  he  had  taken  what  he  could,  which  was 
not,  at  first,  a  great  deal. 

This  momentous  morning  he  had  decided  that 
his  unsolicited  mission  was  to  induce  or  persuade 
Loring  to  arbitrate  the  question  of  grazing- 

278 


The  Peacemaker 

rights.  It  was  a  strange  idea,  although  not 
incompatible  with  Sundown's  peculiar  tempera- 
ment. He  felt  justified  in  taking  the  initiative, 
especially  in  view  of  the  fact  that  LoVing's  sheep 
had  been  trespassing  on  his  property. 

He  saddled  "Pill,"  and  called  to  Chance.  "See 
here,  Chance,  you  and  me's  pals.  No,  you  ain't 
comin'  this  trip.  You  stick  around  and  keep 
your  eye  on  me  stock.  What's  mine  is  yourn  ex- 
ceptin'  the  rooster.  Speakin'  poetical,  he  belongs 
to  them  hens.  If  he  ain't  here  when  I  get  back,  I 
can  pretty  nigh  tell  by  the  leavin's  where  he  is. 
When  I  git  back  I  look  to  find  you  hungry,  sabe? 
And  not  sneakin'  around  lookin'  at  me  edgeways 
with  leetle  feathers  stickin'  to  your  nose.  I 
reckon  you  understand." 

Chance  followed  his  master  to  the  road,  and 
there  the  dog  sat  gazing  at  the  bobbing  figure  of 
Sundown  until  it  was  but  a  speck  in  the  morning 
sunshine.  Then  Chance  fell  to  scratching  his  ear 
with  his  hind  foot,  rose  and  shook  himself,  and 
stalked  indolently  to  the  yard  where  he  lay  with 
his  nose  along  his  outstretched  fore  legs,  watch- 
ing the  proscribed  rooster  with  an  eloquence  of 
expression  that  illustrated  the  proverbial  power 
of  mind  over  matter. 

Sundown  kept  Pill  loping  steadily.  It  was  a 
long  ride,  but  Sundown's  mind  was  so  preoccu- 
pied with  the  preparing  of  his  proposed  appeal  to 

279 


Sundown  Slim 

the  sheep-man  that  the  morning  hours  and  the 
sunlit  miles  swept  past  unnoticed.  The  dark 
green  of  the  acacias  bordering  the  hacienda,  the 
twinkling  white  of  the  speeding  windmill,  and  the 
dull  brown  of  the  adobes  became  distinct  and 
separate  colors  against  the  far  edge  of  the  east- 
ern sky.  He  reined  his  pony  to  a  walk.  "When 
you're  in  a  hurry  to  do  somethin',"  he  informed 
his  horse,  "it  ain't  always  good  politics  to  let 
folks  know  it.  So  we'll  ride  up  easy,  like  we 
had  money  to  spend,  and  was  jest  lookin'  over 
the  show-case."  And  Pill  was  not  averse  to  the 
suggestion. 

Sundown  dismounted,  opened  the  gate,  and 
swinging  to  the  saddle,  rode  up  to  the  ranch- 
house.  Had  he  known  that  Anita,  the  daughter 
of  Chico  Miguel,  was  at  that  moment  talking 
with  the  wife  of  one  of  Loring's  herders;  that  she 
was  describing  him  in  glowing  terms  to  her 
friend,  and  moreover,  as  he  passed  up  the  drive- 
way, that  Anita  had  turned  swiftly,  dropping  the 
pitcher  of  milk  which  she  had  just  brought  from 
the  cooling-room  as  she  saw  him,  he  might  well 
have  been  excused  from  promulgating  his  mis- 
sion of  peace  with  any  degree  of  coherence.  Sub- 
limely ignorant  of  her  presence,  —  spiritualists 
and  sentimentalists  to  the  contrary  in  like  in- 
stances, —  he  rode  directly  to  the  hacienda, 
asked  for  the  patron,  and  was  shown  to  the  cool 

280 


The  Peacemaker 

interior  of  the  house  by  the  mildly  astonished 
Senora.  Seiior  Loring  would  return  presently. 
Would  the  gentleman  refresh  himself  by  resting 
until  the  Senor  returned?  Possibly  she  herself 
could  receive  the  message  —  or  the  Senorita, 
who  was  in  the  garden? 

"Thanks,  lady.  I  reckon  Pill  is  dry  —  wants 
a  drink  —  agua  —  got  a  thirst.  No,  ma'am.  lean 
wait.  I  mean  me  horse." 

"Oh!  Si!  But  Juan  would  attend  to  the  horse 
and  at  once." 

"Thanks,  lady.  And  if  Miss  Loring  ain't  too 
busy,  I  reckon  I'd  like  to  see  her  a  minute." 

The  Senora  disappeared.  Sundown  could  hear 
her  call  for  Juan.  Presently  Nell  Loring  came  to 
the  room,  checked  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as 
she  recognized  him,  and  stepping  forward,  of- 
fered her  hand.  "You're  from  Mr.  Corliss.  I  re- 
member. ...  Is  Chance  all  right  now?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  He  is  enjoyin'  fust-rate  health. 
He  eats  reg'lar  —  and  rabbits  in  between.  But 
I  ain't  from  the  Concho,  lady.  I'm  from  me  own 
ranch,  down  there  at  the  water-hole.  Me  boss 
ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  me  bein'  here.  It's 
me  own  idea.  I  come  friendly  and  wishful  to 
make  a  little  talk  to  your  pa." 

Wondering  what  could  have  induced  Sundown 
to  call  at  her  home,  especially  under  the  existing 
circumstances,  Nell  Loring  made  him  welcome. 

281 


Sundown  Slim 

After  he  had  washed  and  strolled  over  to  the 
stables  to  see  to  his  horse,  Sundown,  returning, 
declined  an  invitation  to  come  in,  and  sat  on  the 
veranda,  smoking  cigarettes  and  making  mental 
note  of  the  exterior  details  of  the  hacienda: 
its  garden,  shade-trees,  corrals,  and  windmill. 
Should  prosperity  smile  upon  him,  he  would  have 
a  windmill,  be  Gosh!  Not  a  white  one  —  though 
white  wasn't  so  bad — but  something  tasty; 
red,  white  and  blue,  mebby  —  a  real  American 
windmill,  and  in  the  front  of  the  house  a  flagpole 
with  the  American  flag.  And  he  would  keep  the 
sign  "American  Hotel"  above  the  gate.  There 
was  nothin'  like  bein'  paterotic.  Mexican  ranches 
—  some  of  'em  —  was  purty  enough  in  a  lazy 
kind  of  style,  but  he  was  goin'  to  let  folks  know 
that  a  white  man  was  runnin'  the  water-hole 
ranch ! 

And  all  unknown  to  him,  Anita  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  one  of  the  herder's  'dobes,  more  than 
ever  impressed  by  the  evident  importance  of  her 
beau-ideal  of  chivalry,  who  took  the  kick  of 
horses  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  rose  smilingly 
from  such  indignities  to  present  flowers  to  her 
with  eyes  which  spake  of  love  and  lips  that  ex- 
pressed, as  best  they  could,  admiration.  Anita 
was  a  bit  disappointed  and  perhaps  a  bit  pleased 
that  he  had  not  as  yet  seen  her.  As  it  was  she 
could  worship  from  a  distance  that  lent  security 

282 


The  Peacemaker 

to  her  tender  embarrassment.  The  tall  one  must, 
indeed,  be  a  great  caballero  to  be  made  welcome 
at  the  patron's  home.  Assuredly  he  was  not  as 
the  other  vaqueros  who  visited  the  patron.  He 
sat  upon  the  veranda  and  smoked  in  a  lordly  way, 
while  they  inevitably  held  forth  in  the  less  con- 
spicuous latitude  of  the  bunk-house  and  its  en- 
virons. Anita  was  happy. 

Sundown,  elated  by  the  righteousness  of  his 
mission  as  harbinger  of  peace,  met  Loring  re- 
turning from  one  of  the  camps  with  gracious 
indifference  to  the  other's  gruff  welcome. 

They  sat  at  the  table  and  ate  in  silence  for  a 
while.  With  the  refreshing  coffee  Sundown's  em- 
barrassment melted.  His  weird  command  of 
language,  enhanced  by  the  opportunity  for  exer- 
cise in  a  good  cause,  astonished  and  eventually 
interested  his  hearers.  He  did  not  approach  his 
subject  directly,  but  mounted  the  metaphorical 
steps  of  his  rostrum  leisurely.  He  discoursed  on 
the  opportunities  afforded  by  the  almost  limitless 
free  range.  He  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  inter- 
necine strife  eventually  awakening  the  cupidity 
of  "land-sharks"  all  over  the  country.  If  there 
was  land  worth  killing  folks  for,  there  was  land 
worth  stealing.  If  the  Concho  Valley  was  once 
thrown  open  to  homesteaders,  then  farewell  free 
range  and  fat  cattle  and  sheep.  And  the  mention 
of  sheep  led  him  to  remark  that  there  was  a  small 


Sundown  Slim 

band  at  the  water-hole,  uncared-for  save  by 
himself.  "And  he  was  no  sheep-man,  but  he 
sure  hated  to  see  any  critters  sufferin'  for  water, 
so  he  had  allowed  the  sheep  to  drink  at  the  water- 
hole."  Then  he  paused,  anticipating  the  obvious 
question  to  which  he  made  answer:  "Yes.  The 
water-hole  ranch  is  me  ranch.  I  filed  on  her  the 
same  day  that  you  and  Miss  Loring  come  to 
Usher.  Incondescent  to  that  I  was  in  the  cala- 
boose at  Antelope.  Somebody  tole  the  sheriff 
that  I  was  a  suspicious  character.  Mebby  I  am, 
judgin'  from  the  outside,  but  inside  I  ain't.  You 
can't  always  tell  what  the  works  is  like  by  the 
case.  I  ain't  got  no  hard  feelin's  for  nobody,  and 
I  'm  wishful  that  folks  don't  have  no  hard  feelin's 
ag'in'  me  or  anybody  else." 

Loring  listened  in  silence.  Finally  he  spoke. 
"I'll  take  care  of  my  sheep.  I'll  send  for  'em 
to-day.  Looks  like  you're  tryin'  to  play  square, 
but  you  don't  figure  in  this  deal.  Jack  Corliss  is 
at  the  bottom  of  it  and  he's  using  you.  And  he'll 
use  you  hard.  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  the 
overflow  from  the  water-hole?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  irrigate  me  ranch,"  said  Sun- 
down. 

Loring  nodded.  "And  cut  off  the  water  from 
everybody?" 

"Not  from  me  friends." 

"Which  means  the  Concho." 
284 


The  Peacemaker 

"Sure!  Jack  Corliss  is  me  friend.  But  that 
ain't  all.  If  you  want  to  be  me  friend,  I  ain't 
kickin'  even  if  you  did  tell  the  sheriff  he  ought  to 
git  acquainted  with  me  closer.  I'm  goin'  to 
speak  right  out.  I  reckon  it's  the  best  way.  I  got 
a  proposition.  If  you'll  quit  sickin'  them  herders 
onto  cowboys  and  if  Jack '11  quit  settin'  the 
punchers  at  your  herders,  I'll  open  up  me  spring 
and  run  her  down  to  where  they's  water  for 
everybody.  If  cows  comes,  they  drink.  If  sheep 
comes,  they  drink.  If  folks  comes,  they  drink, 
likewise.  But  no  fightin'." 

Sundown  as  arbiter  of  peace  felt  that  he  had, 
in  truth,  "spoken  right  out."  He  was  not  a  little 
surprised  at  himself  and  a  bit  fearful.  Yet  he  felt 
justified  in  his  suggestion.  Theoretically  he  had 
made  a  fair  offer.  Practically  his  offer  was  of  no 
value.  Sheep  and  cattle  could  not  occupy  the 
same  range.  Loring  grumbled  something  and 
shoved  back  his  chair.  They  rose  and  stepped  to 
the  veranda. 

"If  you  can  get  Corliss  to  agree  to  what  you 
say  —  and  quit  runnin'  cattle  on  the  water-hole 
side  —  I'll  quit  runnin'  sheep  there."  And 
Loring  waved  his  hand  toward  the  north. 

"But  the  Concho  is  on  the  west  side — "  be- 
gan Sundown. 

"And  cattle  are  grazin'  on  the  east  side,"  said 
Loring. 

285 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown  scratched  his  head.  "I  reckon  I  got 
to  see  Jack,"  he  said. 

"And  you'll  waste  time,  at  that,"  said  Loring. 
"Look  here!  Are  you  ranchin'  to  hold  down  the 
water-hole  for  Corliss  or  to  make  a  livin'?" 

Sundown  hesitated.  He  gazed  across  the  yard 
to  the  distant  mesa.  Suddenly  a  figure  crossed 
the  pathway  to  the  gate.  He  jerked  up  his  head 
and  stood  with  mouth  open.  It  could  n't  be  — 
but,  yes,  it  was  Anita  —  Linda  Rosa!  Gee  Gosh! 
He  turned  to  Loring.  "I  been  tellin'  you  the 
truth,"  he  said  simply.  "'Course  I  got  to  see  me 
boss,  now.  But  it  makes  no  difference  what  he 
says,  after  this.  I  'm  ranchin'  for  meself ,  because 
I'm  —  er  —  thinkin'  of  gettin'  married." 

Without  further  explanation,  Sundown  stalked 
to  the  stable  and  got  his  horse.  He  came  to  the 
hacienda  and  made  his  adieux.  Then  he  mounted 
and  rode  slowly  down  the  roadway  toward  the 
gate. 

Anita's  curiosity  had  overcome  her  timidity. 
Quite  accidentally  she  stood  toying  with  a  bud 
that  she  had  picked  from  the  flower-bordered  road- 
way. She  turned  as  Sundown  jingled  up  and  met 
him  with  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  pleasure.  He 
swung  from  his  horse  hat  in  hand  and  advanced, 
bowing.  Anita  flushed  and  gazed  at  the  ground. 
8  'Mornin',  Senorita!  I  sure  am  jest  hoppin' 
glad  to  see  you  ag'in.  If  I  'd  'a'  knowed  you  was 

286 


The  Peacemaker 

here  .  .  .  But  I  come  on  business  —  important. 
Reckon  you're  visitin'  friends,  eh?" 

"Si,  Senor!" 

"Do  you  come  here  reg'lar?" 

"Only  to  see  the  good  aunt  sometimes." 

"Uhuh.  I  kind  of  wish  your  aunt  was  hangin' 
out  at  the  Concho,  though.  This  here  ain't  a 
reg'lar  stoppin'-place  for  me." 

"You  go  away?"  queried  Anita. 

"  I  reckon  I  got  to  after  what  I  said  up  there  to 
the  house.  Yes,  I'm  goin'  back  to  feed  me  pigs 
and  Chance  and  the  hens.  I  set  up  housekeepin' 
since  I  seen  you.  Got  a  ranch  of  me  own  —  that 
I  was  tellin'  you  about.  You  ought  to  see  it! 
Some  class!  But  it's  mighty  lonely,  evenin's." 

Anita  sighed  and  glanced  at  Sundown.  Then 
her  gaze  dwelt  on  the  bud  she  held.  "  Si,  Senor  — 
it  is  lonely  in  the  evenings,"  she  said,  and 
although  she  spoke  in  Spanish,  Sundown  did  not 
misunderstand. 

He  grinned  hugely.  "You  sure  don't  need  to 
talk  American  to  tell  it,"  he  said  as  one  who  had 
just  made  a  portentous  discovery.  "It  was  wor- 
ryin'  me  how  we  was  goin'  to  get  along  —  me 
short  on  the  Spanish  and  you  short  on  my  talk. 
But  I  reckon  we'll  get  along  fine.  Your  pa  in 
good  health,  and  your  ma?" 

Anita  nodded  shyly. 

Sundown  was  at  a  loss  to  continue  this  pleas- 
287 


Sundown  Slim 

ant  conversation.  He  brightened,  however,  as  a 
thought  inspired  him.  "And  the  leetle  hoss,  is  he 
doin' well?" 

"That  Sarko  I  do  not  like  that  he  should  keeck 
you!"  flamed  Anita,  and  Sundown's  cup  of  hap- 
piness was  full  to  overflowing. 

Quite  unconsciously  he  was  leading  his  horse 
toward  the  gate  and  quite  unconsciously  Anita 
was  walking  beside  him.  Forgotten  was  the 
Loring  ranch,  the  Concho,  his  own  homestead. 
He  was  with  his  inamorata,  the  "Linda  Rosa"  of 
his  dreams. 

At  the  gateway  he  turned  to  her.  "  I  'm  comin' 
over  to  see  your  folks  soon  as  I  git  things  to  run- 
nin'  on  me  ranch.  Keeps  a  fella  busy,  but  I'm 
sure  comin'.  I  ain't  got  posies  to  growin'  yet,  but 
I'm  goin'  to  have  some  —  like  them,"  and  he 
indicated  the  bud  which  she  held. 

"You  like  it?"  she  queried.  And  with  bashful 
gesture  she  gave  him  the  rose,  smiling  as  he  imme- 
diately stuck  it  in  the  band  of  his  sombrero. 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Linda  Rosa,"  he 
said  gently,  "I  can't  make  the  big  talk  in  the 
Spanish  lingo  or  I'd  say  how  I  was  lovin'  you 
and  thinkin'  of  you  reg'lar  and  deep.  'Course  I 
got  to  put  your  pa  and  ma  wise  first.  But  some 
day  I  'm  comin'  —  me  and  Chance  —  and  tell 
you  that  I  'm  ready  —  that  me  ranch  is  doin'  fine, 
and  that  I  sure  want  you  to  come  over  and  boss 

288 


The  Peacemaker 

the  outfit.  I  used  to  reckon  that  I  did  n't  want 
no  woman  around  bossin'  things,  but  I  changed 
me  mind.  Adios !  Senorita !  —  for  I  sure  got  to 
feed  them  hens." 

Sundown  extended  his  hand.  Anita  laid  her 
own  plump  brown  hand  in  Sundown's  hairy  paw. 
For  an  instant  he  hesitated,  moved  by  a  most 
natural  impulse  to  kiss  her.  Her  girlish  face, 
innocently  sweet  and  trusting,  her  big  brown 
eyes  glowing  with  admiration  and  wonder,  as  she 
gazed  up  at  him,  offered  temptation  and  excuse 
enough.  It  was  not  timidity  nor  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity that  caused  Sundown  to  hesitate,  but 
rather  that  innate  respect  for  women  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  gentle  man  from  the  slovenly  gener- 
alization "gentleman."  "Adios!  Linda  Rosa!  "he 
murmured,  and  stooping,  kissed  her  brown  fingers. 
Then  he  gestured  with  magnificence  toward  the 
flowers  bordering  the  roadway.  "And  you  sure 
are  the  lindaest  little  Linda  Rosa  of  the  bunch!" 

And  Anita's  heart  was  filled  with  happiness  as 
she  watched  her  brave  caballero  ride  away,  so 
tall,  so  straight,  and  of  such  the  gentle  manner 
and  the  royal  air! 

It  was  inevitable  that  he  should  turn  and  wave 
to  her,  but  it  was  not  inevitable  that  she  should 
have  thrown  him  a  pretty  kiss  with  the  grace  of 
her  pent-up  emotion  —  but  she  did. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AN   UNEXPECTED   VISIT 

IT  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Sundown  re- 
turned to  his  ranch.  Chance  welcomed  him  with 
vocal  and  gymnastic  abandon.  Sundown  has- 
tened to  his  "tame  cow"  and  milked  her  while 
the  four  hens  peeped  and  clucked  from  their  roost, 
evidently  disturbed  by  the  light  of  the  lantern. 
Meanwhile  Chance  lay  gravely  watching  his 
master  until  Gentle  Annie  had  been  relieved  of 
the  full  and  creamy  quota  of  her  donation  to  the 
maintenance  of  the  household.  Then  the  wolf- 
dog  followed  his  master  to  the  kitchen  where 
they  enjoyed,  in  separate  dishes,  Gentle  Annie's 
warm  contribution,  together  with  broken  bread 
and  "a  leetle  salt  to  bring  out  the  gamey  flavor." 

Solicitous  of  the  welfare  of  his  stock,  as  he 
termed  them,  he  betook  himself  to  the  hen-house 
to  feed  the  chickens.  "Huh!"  he  exclaimed, 
raising  the  lantern  and  peering  round,  "there's 
one  rooster  missin'!"  The  rooster  had  in  truth 
disappeared.  He  put  down  the  lantern  and 
turned  to  Chance.  "Lemme  look  at  your  mouth. 
No,  they  ain't  no  signs  on  you.  Hold  on!  Be 
Gosh,  if  they  ain't  some  leetle  red  hairs  stickin'  to 
your  chops.  What's  the  answer?" 

£90 


An  Unexpected  Visit 

Chance  whined  and  wagged  his  tail.  "You 
don't  look  like  you  was  guilty.  And  that  there 
rooster  was  n't  sportin'  red  hair  the  last  time  I 
seen  him.  Did  you  eat  him  fust  and  then  swaller 
a  rabbit  to  cover  his  tracks?  I  reckon  not.  You're 
some  dog  —  but  you  ain't  got  boiler-room  for  a 
full-size  Rhode  Island  Red  and  a  rabbit  and  two 
quarts  of  bread-and-milk.  It  ain't  reas'nable.  I 
got  to  investigate." 

The  dog  seemed  to  understand.  He  leaped  up 
and  trotted  to  the  yard,  turning  his  head  and 
silently  coaxing  his  master  to  follow  him.  Sun- 
down, with  a  childish  and  most  natural  faith  in 
Chance's  intelligence,  followed  him  to  the  fence, 
scrambled  through  and  trailed  him  out  on  the 
mesa.  In  a  little  hollow  Chance  stopped  and 
stood  with  crooked  fore  leg.  Sundown  stalked 
up.  At  his  feet  fluttered  his  red  rooster  and  not 
far  from  it  lay  the  body  of  a  full-grown  coyote. 
Chance  ran  to  the  coyote  and  diving  in  shook  the 
inanimate  shape  and  growled.  "Huh!  Showin' 
me  what  you  done  to  him  for  stealin'  our  rooster, 
eh?  Well,  you  sure  are  goin'  to  get  suthin'  extra 
for  this !  You  caught  him  with  the  goods  —  looks 
like.  And  look  here!"  —  and  Sundown  deposited 
the  lantern  on  a  knoll  and  sat  down  facing  the 
dog.  "What  I'm  goin'  to  give  you  that  extra  for 
ain't  for  killin'  the  coyote.  That  is  your  business 
when  I  ain't  to  home.  You  could  'a'  finished  off 

291 


Sundown  Slim 

Jimmy"  —  and  he  gestured  toward  the  rooster 
—  "and  the  evidence  would  'a'  been  in  your 
favor,  seein'  as  you  was  wise  to  show  me  the  coy- 
ote. I  got  some  candy  put  by  for  —  for  later,  if 
she  likes  it,  but  we  're  goin'  to  bust  open  that  box 
of  candy  and  celebrate.  Got  to  see  if  I  can  repair 
Jimmy  fust,  though,  or  else  use  the  axe.  I 
dunno." 

Jimmy  was  a  sad  spectacle.  His  tail-feathers 
were  about  gone  and  one  leg  was  maimed,  yet  he 
still  showed  the  fighting  spirit  of  his  New  Eng- 
land sires,  for,  as  Sundown  essayed  to  pick  him 
up,  he  pecked  and  squawked  energetically. 

They  returned  to  the  house,  where  Sundown 
examined  the  bedraggled  bird  critically.  "I  ain't 
no  doc,  but  I  have  been  practiced  on  some  meself . 
Looks  like  his  left  kicker  was  bruk.  Guess  it 's  the 
splints  for  him  and  nussin'  by  hand.  Here,  you! 
Let  go  that  button!  That  ain't  a  bug!  There! 
'T  ain't  what  you'd  call  a  perfessional  job,  but 
if  you  jest  quit  runnin'  around  nights  and  take 
care  of  your  health,  mebby  you'll  come  through. 
Don'  know  what  them  hens  '11  think,  though. 
You  sure  ain't  no  Anner  Dominus  no  more.  If 
you  was  a  lady  hen,  you  could  pertend  you  was 
wearin'  evenin'  dress  like  —  low-neck  and  sus- 
penders. But  bein'  a  he,  't  ain't  the  style.  Won- 
der if  you  got  your  crow  left?  You  ain't  got  a 
whole  lot  more  to  tell  you  from  jest  a  hen." 

292 


An  Unexpected  Visit 

With  Jimmy  installed  in  a  box  of  straw  in  the 
kitchen,  the  pigs  fed,  and  Gentle  Annie  grazing 
contentedly,  Sundown  felt  able  to  relax.  It  had 
been  a  strenuous  day  for  him.  He  drew  a  chair 
to  the  stove,  and  before  he  sat  down  he  brought 
forth  from  beneath  the  bed  a  highly  colored  card- 
board box  on  which  was  embossed  a  ribbon  of 
blue  sealed  with  a  gold  paster-seal.  Chance 
watched  him  gravely.  It  was  a  ceremony.  Sun- 
down opened  the  box  and  picking  out  a  chocolate 
held  it  up  that  Chance  might  realize  fully  that  it 
was  a  ceremony.  The  dog's  nose  twitched  and 
he  licked  his  chops.  "Tastes  good  a'ready,  eh? 
Well,  it's  yourn."  And  he  solemnly  gave  Chance 
the  chocolate.  "Gee  Gosh!  What'd  you  do  with 
it?  That  ain't  no  way  to  eat  candy!  You  want 
to  chew  her  slow  and  kind  o'  hang  on  till  she  ain't 
there.  Then  you  get  your  money's  worth.  Want 
another?" 

Later  Sundown  essayed  to  smoke,  but  found 
the  flavor  of  chocolate  incompatible  with  the 
enjoyment  of  tobacco.  Chance  dozed  by  the  fire, 
and  Jimmy,  with  neck  stretched  above  the  edge 
of  the  box,  watched  Sundown  with  beady,  blink- 
ing eyes. 


Sundown  slept  late  next  morning.  The  lowing 
of  Gentle  Annie  as  she  mildly  endeavored  to  make 


Sundown  Slim 

it  known  that  milking-time  was  past,  the  muffled 
grunting  of  the  two  pigs  as  they  rooted  in  the 
mud  or  poked  flat  flexible  noses  through  the  bars, 
the  restless  padding  of  Chance  to  and  from  the 
bedroom,  merely  harmonized  in  chorus  with 
audible  slumbers  until  one  of  the  hens  cackled. 
Then  Jimmy,  from  his  box  near  the  stove,  lifted 
his  clarion  shrill  in  reply  to  the  hen.  Sundown 
sat  up,  scratched  his  ear,  and  arose. 

He  was  returning  from  a  practice  of  five-finger 
exercise  on  Gentle  Annie,  busy  with  his  thoughts 
and  the  balance  of  the  pail,  when  a  shout  brought 
his  gaze  to  the  road.  John  Corliss  and  Bud  Shoop 
waved  him  greeting,  and  dismounting  led  their 
horses  to  the  yard. 

"Saves  me  a  ride,"  muttered  Sundown.  Then, 
"How,  folks!  Come  right  in!" 

He  noticed  that  the  ponies  seemed  tired  — 
that  the  cinchas  were  mud-spattered  and  that 
the  riders  seemed  weary.  He  invited  his  guests 
to  breakfast.  After  the  meal  the  three  fore- 
gathered outside  the  house. 

"That  was  right  good  beef  you  fed  us,"  re- 
marked Shoop,  slightly  raising  one  eyebrow  as 
Corliss  glanced  at  him. 

"The  best  in  the  country,"  cheerfully  assented 
Sundown. 

"How  you  making  it,  Sun?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I'm  wigglin'  along.  Come  home 
294 


An  Unexpected  Visit 

last  night  and  found  Jimmy  with  his  leg  bruk. 
Everything  else  was  all  right." 

"Jimmy?" 

"Uhuh.  Me  rooster." 

"Coyote  grab  him?" 

"Uhuh.  And  Chance  fixed  Mr.  Coyote.  I  was 
to  Loring's  yesterday  on  business." 

Shoop  glanced  at  Corliss  who  had  thus  far 
remained  silent. 

"We  had  a  little  business  to  talk  over,"  said 
the  rancher.  "You're  located  now.  I'm  going 
to  run  some  cattle  down  this  way  next  week. 
Some  of  mine  and  some  of  the  Two-Bar-O."  Cor- 
liss, who  had  been  standing,  stepped  to  the  door- 
way and  sat  down.  Shoop  and  Sundown  followed 
him  and  lay  outstretched  on  the  warm  earth. 
"Funny  thing,  Bud,  about  that  Two-Bar-O  steer 
we  found  cut  up." 

"Sure  was,"  said  Shoop. 

"Did  he  get  in  a  fence?"  queried  Sundown. 

"No.  He  was  killed  for  beef.  We  ran  across 
him  yesterday  and  did  some  looking  around  last 
night.  Trailed  over  this  way  to  have  a  talk." 

"I'm  right  glad  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  speak 
a  little  piece  meself  after  you  get  through." 

"All  right.  Here's  the  story."  And  Corliss 
gazed  across  the  mesa  for  a  moment.  "The 
South  Spring's  gone  dry.  The  fork  is  so  low  that 
only  a  dozen  head  can  drink  at  once.  It's  been 

295 


Sundown  Slim 

a  mighty  dry  year,  and  the  river  is  about  played 
out  except  in  the  canon,  and  the  stock  can't  get 
to  the  water  there.  This  is  about  the  only  natural 
supply  outside  the  ranch.  I  want  to  put  a  couple 
of  men  in  here  and  ditch  to  that  hollow  over 
there.  It'll  take  about  all  your  water,  but  we  got 
to  have  it.  I  want  you  to  put  in  a  gas-engine  and 
pump  for  us.  Maybe  we'll  have  to  pipe  to  tanks 
before  we  get  through.  I  '11  give  you  fifty  a  month 
to  run  the  engine." 

"I'll  sure  keep  that  leetle  ole  gas-engine 
coughin'  reg'lar,"  said  Sundown.  "I  was  thinkin' 
of  somethin'  like  that  meself.  You  see  I  seen 
Loring  yesterday.  I  told  him  that  anybody  that 
was  wishful  could  water  stock  here  so  long  as  she 
held  out  —  except  there  was  to  be  no  shootin' 
and  killin',  and  the  like.  Ole  man  Loring  says  to 
tell  you  what  I  told  him  and  see  what  you  said. 
I  reckon  he'll  take  his  sheep  out  of  here  if  you 
folks '11  take  your  cattle  off  the  east  side.  I  ain't 
playin'  no  favorites.  You  been  my  friend  —  you 
and  Bud.  You  come  and  make  me  a  proposition 
to  pump  water  for  you  —  and  the  fifty  a  month 
is  for  the  water.  That's  business.  Loring  ain't 
said  nothin'  about  buyin'  water  from  me,  so  you 
get  it.  You  see  I  was  kind  of  figurin'  somethin' 
like  this  when  I  first  come  to  this  here  place  — 
'way  back  when  I  met  you  that  evenin'.  Says  I 
to  meself,  'a  fella  could  n't  even  raise  robins  on 

296 


An  Unexpected  Visit 

this  here  farm,  but  from  the  looks  of  that  water- 
hole  he  could  raise  water,  and  folks  sure  got  to 
have  water  in  this  country.'  I  was  thinkin'  of 
irrigatin'  and  raisin'  alfalfa  and  veg'tables,  but 
fifty  a  month  sounds  good  to  me.  Bein'  a  puncher 
meself,  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  sheep,  but  I  was 
willin'  to  give  ole  man  Loring  a  chance.  If  the 
mesas  is  goin'  dry  on  the  east  side,  what 's  he  goin' 
to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  Sun.  He's  got  a  card  up  his 
sleeve,  and  you  want  to  stay  right  on  the  job. 
Bud  here  got  a  tip  in  Antelope  that  a  bunch  of 
Mexicans  came  in  last  week  from  Loring's  old 
ranch  in  New  Mexico.  Some  of  'em  are  herders 
and  some  of  'em  are  worse.  I  reckon  he  '11  try  to 
push  his  sheep  across  and  take  up  around  here. 
He  '11  try  it  at  night.  If  he  does  and  you  get  on  to 
it  before  we  do,  just  saddle  Pill  and  fan  it  for  the 
Concho." 

"Gee  Gosh!  But  that  means  more  fightin'!" 

Shoop  and  Corliss  said  nothing.  Sundown 
gazed  at  them  questioningly. 

Presently  Corliss  gestured  toward  the  south. 
"They'll  make  it  interesting  for  you.  Loring's 
an  old-timer  and  he  won't  quit.  This  thing  won't 
be  settled  until  something  happens  —and  I 
reckon  it's  going  to  happen  soon." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  sittin'  on  the  dynamite,"  said 
Sundown  lugubriously.  "I  reckoned  to  settle 

297 


Sundown  Slim 

down  and  git  m —  me  farm  to  goin'  and  keep  out 
of  trouble.  Now  it  looks  like  I  was  the  cat  what 
fell  out  of  a  tree  into  a  dog-fight  by  mistake. 
They  was  nothin'  left  of  that  cat." 

Shoop  laughed.  "We'll  see  that  you  come  out 
all  right." 

Sundown  accepted  this  meager  consolation 
with  a  grimace.  Then  his  face  beamed.  "Say! 
What's  the  matter  of  me  tellin'  the  sheriff  that 
there's  like  to  be  doin's  —  and  mebby  he  could 
come  over  and  kind  of  scare  'em  off." 

"The  idea  is  all  right,  Sun.  But  Jim  is  a  mar- 
ried man.  Most  of  his  deputies  are  married.  If  it 
comes  to  a  mix  some  of  'em'd  get  it  sure.  Now 
there  is  n't  a  married  man  on  the  Concho  — 
which  makes  a  lot  of  difference.  Sabe?" 

"I  reckon  that's  right,"  admitted  Sundown. 
"Killin'  a  married  man  is  like  killin'  the  whole 
fambly." 

"And  you're  a  single  man  —  so  you're  all 
right,"  said  Shoop. 

"Gee  Gosh!  Mebby  that  ought  to  make  me 
feel  good,  but  it  don't.  Supposin'  a  fella  was  goin' 
to  get  married?" 

"Then— he'd  — better  wait,"  said  Corliss, 
smiling  at  his  foreman. 

Corliss  stood  up  and  yawned.  "Oh,  say,  Sun, 
where 'd  you  get  that  beef?"  he  asked  casually. 

"The  beef?  Why,  a  Chola  come  along  here 
298 


An  Unexpected  Visit 

day  afore  yesterday  and  say  if  I  wanted  some 
meat.  I  says  yes.  Then  he  rides  off  and  purty 
soon  he  comes  back  with  a  hind-quarter  on  his 
saddle.  I  give  him  two  dollars  for  it.  It  looked 
kind  of  funny,  but  I  thought  he  was  mebby 
campin'  out  there  somewhere  and  peddlin'  meat." 

Shoop  and  Corliss  glanced  at  each  other. 
"They  don't  peddle  meat  that  way  in  this  coun- 
try, Sun.  What  did  the  Mexican  look  like?" 

"Kind  of  fat  and  greasy-like,  and  he  was  as 
cross-eyed  as  a  rabbit  watchin'  two  dogs  to 
onct." 

"That  so?  Let's  have  a  look  at  that  hind- 
quarter." 

"Sure!  Over  there  in  the  well-shed." 

When  Corliss  returned,  he  nodded  to  Shoop. 
Then  he  turned  to  Sundown.  "We  found  a  Two- 
Bar-O  steer  killed  right  close  to  here  yesterday. 
Looks  queer.  Well,  we '11  be  fanning  it.  I '11  send 
to  Antelope  and  have  them  order  the  pump  and 
some  pipe.  Got  plenty  of  grub?" 

"Plenty  'nough  for  a  couple  of  weeks." 

"All  right.  So-long.  Keep  your  eye  on  things." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

VAMOSE,    EH? 

THE  intermittent  popping  of  the  gasoline 
engine,  as  it  forced  water  to  the  big,  unpainted 
tank  near  the  water-hole,  became  at  first  monot- 
onous and  finally  irritating.  Sundown,  clad  in 
oil-spotted  overalls  that  did  not  by  many  inches 
conceal  his  riding-boots  and  his  Spanish  spurs, 
puttered  about  the  engine  until  he  happened  to 
glance  at  the  distant  tank.  A  silvery  rill  of  water 
was  pouring  from  the  top  of  the  tank.  He  shut 
off  the  engine,  wiped  his  hands,  and  strode  to  the 
house. 

He  was  gone  a  long  time,  so  long  in  fact  that 
Chance  decided  to  investigate.  The  dog  got  up, 
stretched  lazily,  and  padded  to  the  doorway.  He 
could  hear  Sundown  muttering  and  shuffling 
about  in  the  bedroom.  Chance  stalked  in  quietly 
and  stood  gazing  at  his  master.  Sundown  had 
evidently  been  taking  a  bath,  — not  in  the  pail  of 
water  that  stood  near  him,  but  obviously  round 
and  about  it.  At  the  moment  he  was  engaged  in 
tying  a  knot  in  the  silk  bandanna  about  his  neck. 
Chance  became  animated.  His  master  was  going 
somewhere!  Sundown  turned  his  head,  glancing 

300 


Vamose,  Eh? 

at  the  dog  with  a  preoccupied  eye.  The  knot 
adjusted  to  his  satisfaction,  he  knelt  and  drew 
a  large  box  from  beneath  the  bed.  From  the  box 
he  took  an  immaculate  and  exceedingly  wide- 
brimmed  Stetson  with  an  exceedingly  high  crown. 
He  dented  the  crown  until  the  hat  had  that  rakish 
appearance  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  cowboy. 
Then  he  took  the  foot-square  looking-glass  from 
the  wall  and  studied  the  effect  at  various  and 
more  or  less  unsatisfactory  angles.  Again  he 
knelt  —  after  depositing  the  hat  on  the  bed  — 
and  emerged  with  a  pair  of  gorgeous  leather 
chaps  that  glittered  with  the  polished  silver  of 
conchas  from  waist-band  to  heel.  Next  he  drew 
on  a  pair  of  elaborate  gauntlets  embellished  with 
hand- worked  silk  roses  of  crimson.  Then  he 
glanced  at  his  boots.  They  were  undoubtedly 
serviceable,  but  more  or  less  muddy  and  stained. 
That  would  n't  do  at  all!  Striding  to  the  kitchen 
he  poked  about  and  finally  unearthed  a  box  of 
stove-polish  that  he  had  purchased  and  laid  away 
for  future  use  against  that  happy  time  when 
stove-polish  would  be  doubly  appreciated.  The 
metallic  luster  of  his  boots  was  not  altogether 
satisfactory,  but  it  would  do.  "This  here  bein' 
chief  engineer  of  a  popcorn  machine  ain't  what 
it's  said  to  be  in  the  perspectus.  Gets  a  fella 
lookin'  greasy  and  feelin'  greasy,  but  the  pay 
kind  of  makes  up  for  it.  Me  first  month's  wages 

301 


Sundown  Slim 

blowed  in  for  outside  decoratin'  —  but  I  reckon 
the  grub '11  hold  out  for  a  spell." 

Then  he  strode  from  the  house  and  made  his 
rounds,  inspecting  the  pigs,  shooing  the  chickens 
to  their  coop,  and  finally  making  a  short  pilgrim- 
age to  where  Gentle  Annie  was  grazing.  After  he 
had  saddled  "Pill,"  he  returned  to  the  house  and 
reappeared  with  a  piece  of  wrapping-paper  on 
which  he  had  printed:  — 

Help  yourself  to  grub  —  but  no  fighting  on 
thees  premisus. 

SUNDOWN,  Propriter. 

"It's  all  right  trustin'  folks,"  he  remarked  as 
he  gazed  proudly  at  the  sign  and  still  more 
proudly  at  the  signature.  "And  I  sure  hate  to 
put  up  anything  that  looks  kind  of  religious,  but 
these  days  I  don't  trust  nobody  but  meself ,  and 
I  sure  have  a  hard  time  doin'  that,  knowin'  how 
crooked  I  could  be  if  I  tried." 

He  gathered  up  the  reins  and  mounted  Pill. 
"  Come  on,  Chance ! "  he  called.  "  We  don't  need 
any  rooster-police  to-day.  Jimmy's  in  there 
talkin'  to  his  hens,  and  like  as  not  cussin'  because 
I  shet  him  up.  And  he  sure  ought  to  be  glad  he 
ain't  goin'  on  crutches." 

He  rode  out  to  the  mesa  and,  turning  from  the 
trail,  took  as  direct  a  course  as  he  could  approxi- 
mate for  the  home  of  Chico  Miguel,  and  incident- 

302 


Vamose,  Eh? 

ally  Anita.  His  mission  would  have  been  obvious 
to  an  utter  stranger.  He  shone  and  glistened 
from  head  to  heel  —  his  face  with  the  inner  light 
of  anticipation  and  his  boots  with  the  effulgence 
of  hastily  applied  stove-polish. 

He  rode  slowly,  for  he  wished  to  collect  him- 
self, that  his  errand  might  have  all  the  grace  of  a 
chance  visit  and  yet  not  lack  the  most  essential 
significance.  He  did  not  stop  to  reason  that 
Anita's  father  and  mother  were  anything  but 
blind. 

The  day  was  exceptionally  hot.  The  sun 
burned  steadily  on  the  ripening  bunch-grass.  His 
pony's  feet  swept  aside  bright  flowers  that  tilted 
their  faces  eagerly  like  the  faces  of  questioning 
children.  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Got  to 
move  along,  Pill.  Reckon  we'll  risk  havin'  some- 
thin'  to  say  when  we  get  there  —  and  not  cook 
her  up  goin'  along.  It  sure  is  hot.  Huh!  That 
there  butte  over  there  looks  jest  like  a  city  ath- 
letic club  with  muscles  all  on  its  front  of  fellas 
wrastlin'  and  throwin'  things  at  themselves. 
Wisht  I  had  a  big  lookin'-glass  so  I  could  see  me- 
self  comin'.  Gee  Gosh,  but  she's  hot!" 

He  put  the  horse  to  a  lope,  and  with  the  sub- 
dued rhythm  of  the  pony's  feet  came  Euterpe 
with  a  song.  Recitation  of  verse  at  a  lope  is  apt 
to  be  punctuated  according  to  the  physical  con- 
tour of  the  ground:  — 

303 


Sundown  Slim 

"In  the  Pull  —  man  car  with  turnin'  fans, 
The  desert  looks  like  a  lovely  p  —  lace. 
But  crossin'  alone  on  the  burnm'  sands, 
She's  hell,  with  a  grin  on  her  face." 

"Got  to  slow  up  to  get  that  right,"  he  said,  "or 
jest  stop  an'  git  off.  But  we  ain't  got  time.  '  Oh, 
down  in  Arizona  there 's  a  .  .  . '  No.  I  reckon  I 
won't.  I  want  to  sing,  but  I  can't  take  no  risks." 

That "  the  Colonel's  lady  and  Julie  O'Grady  are 
sisters  under  their  skins,"  is  not  to  be  doubted. 
That  Romeo  and  Sundown  are  brothers,  with  the 
odds  slightly  in  favor  of  Sundown,  is  apparent  to 
those  who  have  been,  are,  or  are  willing  to  be,  in 
love.  "Will  this  plume,  these  trunks  and  hose, 
this  bonnet  please  my  fair  Juliet?"  sighs  Romeo 
to  his  mirror.  And  "Will  these  here  chaps  and  me 
bandanna  and  me  new  Stetson  make  a  hit  with 
me  leetle  Anita?"  asks  Sundown  of  the  mesas. 

That  the  little  Anita  was  pleased,  nay,  over- 
whelmed by  the  arrival  of  her  gorgeous  caballero 
was  more  than  apparent  to  the  anxious  Sundown. 
She  came  running  to  the  gate  and  stood  with 
clasped  hands  while  he  bowed  for  the  seventh 
time  and  slowly  dismounted,  giving  his  leg  an 
unnecessary  shake  that  the  full  effect  of  spur  and 
concha  might  not  be  lost.  He  felt  the  high  im- 
portance of  his  visit,  and  Anita  also  surmised 
that  something  unusual  was  about  to  happen. 
He  strode  magnificently  to  the  house  and  again 

304 


Vamose,  Eh? 

doffed  his  Stetson  to  the  astonished  and  smiling 
Senora.  Evidently  the  strange  vaquero  had  met 
with  fortune.  With  experienced  eye  the  mother 
of  Anita  swiftly  estimated  the  monetary  outlay 
necessary  to  possess  such  an  equipment.  It  was 
well  to  be  courted,  of  that  she  was  reminiscently 
certain.  Yet  it  was  also  well  to  be  courted  by  one 
who  bore  the  earmarks  —  so  to  speak  —  of  pros- 
perity. Sundown  was  made  heartily  welcome. 

After  they  had  had  dinner,  —  Chico  Miguel 
would  return  at  night  as  usual,  —  Sundown  men- 
tally besought  his  stars  to  aid  him,  lend  him  elo- 
quence and  the  Senora  understanding,  and  found 
excuse  to  follow  the  Senora  to  the  kitchen  where 
he  offered  to  wipe  the  dishes.  This  she  would  not 
hear  of,  but  being  wise  in  her  generation  she  dis- 
missed Anita  on  a  trivial  errand  and  motioned 
her  guest  to  a  seat.  What  was  said  is  a  matter  of 
interest  only  to  those  immediately  concerned. 
Love  is  his  own  interpreter  and  labors  willingly, 
yet  in  this  instance  his  limitations  must  be  ex- 
cused by  the  result.  The  Senora  and  Sundown 
came  to  a  perfect  understanding.  The  cabellero 
was  welcome  to  make  the  state  of  his  heart 
known  to  Anita.  As  for  her  father,  she  —  the 
Senora  —  would  attend  to  him.  And  was  Sun- 
down fond  of  the  tortillas?  He  was,  be  Gosh!  It 
was  well.  They  would  have  tortillas  that  even- 
ing. Chico  Miguel  was  especially  fond  of  the  tor- 

305 


Sundown  Slim 

tillas.  They  made  him  of  the  pleasant  disposi- 
tion and  induced  him  to  tune  the  big  guitar. 

The  Senora  would  take  her  siesta.  Possibly 
her  guest  would  smoke  and  entertain  Anita  with 
news  from  the  Concho  and  of  the  Patron  Loring 
and  of  his  own  rancho.  Anita  was  not  of  what 
you  say  the  kind  to  do  the  much  talking,  but  she 
had  a  heart.  Of  that  the  Senora  had  reason  to  be 
assured.  Had  not  Anita  gone,  each  day,  to  the 
gate  and  stood  gazing  down  the  road?  Surely 
there  was  nothing  to  see  save  the  mesas.  Had 
she  not  begged  to  be  allowed  to  visit  the  Loring 
hacienda  not  of  so  very  long  time  past?  And 
Anita  had  not  been  to  the  Loring  hacienda  for  a 
year  or  more.  Such  things  were  significant.  And 
the  Senora  gestured  toward  her  own  bosom,  im- 
plying that  she  of  a  surety  knew  from  which 
quarter  the  south  wind  blew. 

All  of  which  delighted  the  already  joyous  Sun- 
down. He  saw  before  him  a  flower-bordered 
pathway  to  his  happiness,  and  incidentally,  as  he 
gazed  down  the  pathway  toward  the  gate  of 
Chico  Miguel's  homestead,  he  saw  Anita  stand- 
ing pensively  beneath  the  shade  of  an  acacia, 
pulling  a  flower  to  pieces  and  casting  quick 
glances  at  the  house.  "Good-night,  Senora,  — 
I  mean  —  er  —  here's  hopin'  you  have  a  good 
sleep.  It  sure  is  refreshin'  this  hot  weather." 
The  Senora  nodded  and  disappeared  in  the  bed- 

306 


Vamose,  Eh? 

room.  Sundown  strode  jingling  down  the  path- 
way, a  brave  figure  in  his  glittering  chaps  and 
tinkling  spurs.  Anita's  eyes  were  hidden  be- 
neath her  long  black  lashes.  Perhaps  she  had 
anticipated  something  of  that  which  followed  — 
perhaps  she  anticipated  even  more.  In  any 
event,  Sundown  was  not  a  disappointment.  He 
asked  her  to  sit  beside  him  beneath  the  acacia. 
Then  he  took  her  hand  and  squeezed  it.  "Let's 
jest  sit  here  and  look  out  at  them  there  mesas 
dancin'  in  the  sun;  and  say,  'Nita,  let's  jest  say 
nothin'  for  a  spell.  I'm  so  right  down  happy 
that  suthin'  hurts  me  throat." 

When  Chico  Miguel  returned  in  the  dusk  of 
evening,  humming  a  song  of  the  herd,  he  was  not 
a  little  surprised  to  find  that  Anita  was  absent. 
He  questioned  the  Senora,  who  smiled  as  she  bus- 
tled about  the  table.  "Tortillas,"  she  said,  and 
was  gratified  at  the  change  in  Chico  Miguel's  ex- 
pression. Then  she  explained  the  presence  of  the 
broad  new  Stetson  that  lay  on  a  chair,  adding  a 
gesture  toward  the  gateway.  "It  is  the  tall  one 
and  our  daughter  —  he  of  the  grand  manner  and 
the  sad  countenance.  It  is  possible  that  a  new 
home  will  be  thought  of  for  Anita."  There  had 
been  conversations  that  afternoon  with  the  tall 
caballero  and  understandings.  Chico  Miguel  was 
to  wash  himself  and  put  on  his  black  suit.  It  was 
an  event  —  and  there  were  tortillas. 

307 


Sundown  Slim 

Chico  Miguel  wondered  why  the  hour  of  eat- 
ing had  been  so  long  past.  To  which  the  Senora 
replied  that  he  had  just  arrived,  and,  moreover, 
that  she  had  already  called  to  Anita  this  the  third 
time,  yet  had  had  no  response.  Chico  Miguel 
moved  toward  the  doorway,  but  his  wife  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "It  is  that  you  take  the  big 
guitar  and  play  the  'Linda  Rosa,  Adios.'  Then, 
to  be  sure,  they  will  hear  and  the  supper  will  not 
grow  cold." 

Grumblingly  Chico  Miguel  took  his  guitar  and 
struck  the  opening  chords  of  the  song.  Presently 
up  the  pathway  came  two  shadowy  figures,  close 
together  and  seemingly  in  no  haste.  As  they  en- 
tered the  house,  Sundown  apologized  for  having 
delayed  supper,  stating  that  he  had  been  so 
interested  in  discussing  with  Anita  the  "best 
breed  of  chickens  to  raise  for  eggs,"  that  other 
things  had  for  the  nonce  not  occupied  his  atten- 
tion. "And  we're  sure  walkin'  on  music,"  he 
added.  "Jest  steppin'  along  on  the  notes  of  that 
there  song.  I  reckon  I  got  to  get  one  of  them 
leetle  potato-bug  mandolins  and  learn  to  tickle 
its  neck.  There 's  nothin'  like  music  —  exceptin' ' 
-  and  he  glanced  at  the  blushing  Anita  —  "ex- 
ceptin' ranchin'." 

It  was  late  when  Sundown  finally  departed. 
He  grew  anxious  as  he  rode  across  the  mesas, 

308 


Vamose,  Eh? 

wondering  if  he  had  not  taken  advantage,  as  it 
were,  of  Gentle  Annie's  good  nature,  and  whether 
or  not  the  chickens  were  very  hungry.  Chance 
plodded  beside  him,  a  vague  shadow  in  the  star- 
light. The  going  was  more  or  less  rough  and  Pill 
dodged  many  gopher-holes,  to  the  peril  of  his 
rider's  equilibrium.  Yet  Sundown  was  glad  that 
it  was  night.  There  was  nothing  to  divert  him 
from  the  golden  dreams  of  the  future.  He  felt 
that  success,  as  he  put  it,  "was  hangin'  around 
the  door  whinin'  to  be  let  in."  He  formulated  a 
creed  for  himself  and  told  the  stars.  "  I  believe  in 
meself  —  you  bet."  Yet  he  was  honest  with  his 
soul.  "I  know  more  about  everything  and  less 
about  anything  than  anybody  —  exceptin'  po'try 
and  cookin'.  But  gettin'  along  ain't  jest  what 
you  know.  It's  more  like  what  you  do.  They's 
fellas  knows  more  than  I  could  learn  in  four  thou- 
sand eight  hundred  and  seventy-six  years,  but 
that  don't  help  'em  get  along  none.  It's  what 
you  know  inside  what  counts." 

He  lapsed  into  silence  and  slouched  in  the  sad- 
dle. Presently  he  nodded,  recovered,  and  nodded 
again.  He  would  not  wittingly  have  gone  to  sleep 
in  the  saddle,  being  as  yet  too  unaccustomed  to 
riding  to  relax  to  that  extent.  But  sleep  had 
something  to  say  anent  the  matter.  He  dozed, 
clasping  the  saddle-horn  instinctively.  Pill 
plodded  along  patiently.  The  east  grew  gray, 


Sundown  Slim 

then  rose-pink,  then  golden.  The  horse  lifted  its 
head  and  quickened  pace.  Sundown  swayed  and 
nodded. 

His  uneasy  slumber  was  broken  by  an  explos- 
ive bark  from  Chance.  Sundown  straightened 
and  rubbed  his  eyes.  Before  him  lay  the  ranch- 
house,  glittering  in  the  sun.  Out  on  the  mesa 
grazed  a  herd  of  sheep  and  past  them  another 
and  another.  Again  he  rubbed  his  eyes. 

Then  he  distinguished  several  saddle-horses 
tied  to  the  fence  surrounding  the  water-hole  and 
there  were  figures  of  men  walking  to  and  from  his 
house,  many  of  them.  He  set  spur  to  Pill  and 
loped  up  to  the  fence.  A  Mexican  with  a  hard, 
lined  face  stepped  up  to  him.  "You  vamose!" 
he  said,  pointing  down  the  road. 

Sundown  stared  at  the  men  about  the  yard. 
Among  them  he  recognized  several  of  Loring's 
herders,  armed  and  evidently  equipped  with 
horses,  for  they  were  booted  and  spurred.  He 
pushed  back  his  hat.  "Vamose,  eh?  I'll  be 
damned  if  I  do." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   INVADERS 

THE  Mexican  whipped  his  gun  out  and  cov- 
ered Sundown,  who  wisely  put  up  his  hands. 
Two  of  the  men  crawled  through  the  fence,  se- 
cured Sundown's  horse,  and  ordered  him  to  dis- 
mount. Before  both  feet  had  touched  the  ground 
one  of  the  Mexicans  had  snatched  Sundown's  gun 
from  its  holster.  Chance  leaped  at  the  Mexican, 
but  Sundown's  "Here,  Chance!"  brought  the 
dog  growling  to  his  master. 

At  that  moment  Loring  stepped  from  the  house, 
and  shouldering  aside  the  men  strode  up  to  Sun- 
down. The  sheep-man  was  about  to  speak  when 
the  tall  one  raised  his  arm  and  shook  his  fist  in 
Loring's  face. 

"Fer  two  pins  I'd  jump  you  and  stomp  the 
gizzard  out  of  you,  you  low-down,  dried-up, 
whisker-faced,  mutton-eatin'  butcher,  you!  I 
goes  to  you  and  makes  you  a  square  offer  and  you 
come  pussy-footin'  in  and  steals  me  ranch  when 
I  ain't  there !  If  Jack  Corliss  don't  run  you  plumb 
off  the  edge  afore  to-morrow  night,  I  '11  sure  see  if 
there's  any  law — "  and  Sundown  paused  for 
lack  of  breath. 

311 


Sundown  Slim 

"Law?  Mebby  you  think  you  got  somethin' 
to  say  about  this  here  water-hole,  and  mebby 
not,"  said  Loring.  "Don't  get  het  up.  I  come  to 
this  country  before  you  knew  it  was  here.  And 
for  law  —  I  reckon  seein'  you're  wanted  by  the 
law  that  them  papers  of  yourn  is  good  for  startin' 
a  fire  —  and  nothin'  more.  The  law  says  that  no 
man  wanted  by  the  law  kin  homestead.  The 
water-hole  is  open  to  the  fust  man  that  wants  it 
and  I'm  the  fust.  Now  mebby  you  can  think 
that  over  and  cool  off." 

Sundown  was  taken  aback.  Though  unversed 
in  the  intricacies  of  the  law,  he  was  sensible 
enough  to  realize  that  Loring  was  right.  Yet  he 
held  tenaciously  to  his  attitude  of  proprietor  of 
the  water-hole.  It  was  his  home  —  the  only  home 
that  he  had  known  in  his  variegated  career.  The 
fact  that  he  was  not  guilty  buoyed  him  up,  how- 
ever. He  decided  that  discretion  had  its  uses. 
As  his  first  anger  evaporated,  he  cast  about  for  a 
plan  whereby  to  notify  Corliss  of  the  invasion  of 
the  water-hole  ranch.  His  glance  wandered  to 
Chance. 

Then  he  raised  his  eyes.  "Well,  now  the  fire- 
works is  burned  down,  what  you  goin'  to  do?" 

Loring  gestured  toward  the  house.  "That's 
my  business.  But  you  can  turn  in  and  cook  grub 
for  the  men.  That  '11  keep  you  from  thinkin'  too 
hard,  and  we're  like  to  be  busy." 

312 


The  Invaders 

"Then  you're  takin'  me  prisoner?"  queried 
Sundown. 

"That'scorrecV 

"How  about  the  law  of  that?" 

"This  outfit's  makin'  its  own  laws  these  days," 
said  Loring. 

And  so  far  as  Loring  was  concerned  that  ended 
the  argument.  Not  so,  however,  with  Sundown. 
He  said  nothing.  Had  Loring  known  him  better, 
that  fact  would  have  caused  him  to  suspect  his 
prisoner.  With  evident  meekness  the  tall  one 
entered  the  house  and  gazed  with  disconsolate 
eyes  at  the  piled  kyacks  of  provisions,  the  tar- 
paulins and  sheepskins.  His  citadel  of  dreams 
had  been  rudely  invaded,  in  truth.  He  was  not 
so  much  angered  by  the  possible  effects  of  the 
invasion  as  by  the  fact.  Gentle  Annie  was  lowing 
plaintively.  The  chickens  were  scurrying  about 
the  yard,  cackling  hysterically  as  they  dodged 
this  and  that  herder.  The  two  pigs,  Sundown  re- 
flected consolingly,  seemed  happy  enough.  Lor- 
ing, standing  in  the  doorway,  pointed  to  the 
stove.  "Get  busy,"  he  said  tersely.  That  was  the 
last  straw.  Silently  Sundown  stalked  to  the  stove, 
rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  went  to  work.  If  there 
were  not  a  score  of  mighty  sick  herders  that  night, 
it  would  not  be  his  fault.  He  had  determined  on 
a  bloodless  but  effective  victory,  wherein  soda 
and  cream-of -tartar  should  be  the  victors. 

313 


Sundown  Slim 

Soda  and  cream-of-tartar  in  proper  propor- 
tions is  harmless.  But  double  the  proportion  of 
cream-of-tartar  and  the  result  is  internal  riot. 
"And  a  leetle  spice  to  kill  the  bitter  of  the  taste 
ought  to  work  all  right,"  he  soliloquized.  Then 
he  remembered  Chance.  Loring  had  left  to  over- 
see the  establishment  of  an  outlying  camp.  The 
Mexican  who  assisted  Sundown  seemed  stupid 
and  sullen.  Sundown  found  excuse  to  enter  his 
bedroom,  where  he  hastily  scrawled  a  note  to 
Corliss.  Later  he  tied  the  note  to  the  inside  of  the 
dog's  collar.  The  next  thing  was  to  get  Chance 
started  on  the  road  to  the  Concho.  He  rolled 
down  his  sleeves  and  strolled  to  the  doorway. 
A  Mexican  sat  smoking  and  watching  the  road. 
Sundown  stepped  past  him  and  began  to  tinker 
with  the  gas-engine.  Chance  stood  watching 
him.  Presently  the  gas-engine  started  with  a 
cough  and  splutter.  Sundown  walked  to  the  door 
and  seemed  about  to  enter  when  the  Mexican 
called  to  him  and  pointed  toward  the  distant  tank. 
Water  was  pouring  over  its  rim.  "  Gee  Gosh !  "  ex- 
claimed Sundown.  "I  got  to  shut  her  off."  He 
ran  to  the  engine  and  its  sound  ceased.  Yet  the 
water  still  poured  from  the  rim  of  the  tank.  "  Got 
to  fix  that!"  he  asserted,  and  started  toward  the 
tank.  The  Mexican  followed  him  to  the  fence. 

"You  come  back?"  he  queried  significantly. 

"Sure  thing!  I  ain't  got  a  boss,  have  I?" 
314 


The  Invaders 

The  Mexican  nodded.  Sundown  crawled 
through  the  fence  and  strode  slowly  to  the  tank. 
He  pretended  to  examine  it  first  in  view  of  the 
house  and  finally  on  the  opposite  side.  As 
Chance  sniffed  along  the  bottom  of  the  tank, 
Sundown  spoke  to  him.  The  dog's  ears  pricked 
forward.  Sundown's  tone  suggested  action. 
"Here,  Chance,  —  you  fan  it  for  the  Concho  — 
Jack  —  the  boss.  Beat  it  for  all  you  're  worth. 
The  Concho!  Sabe?"  And  he  patted  the  dog's 
head  and  pointed  toward  the  south. 

Chance  hesitated,  leaping  up  and  whining. 

"That's  all  right,  pardner.  They  ain't  nothin' 
goin'  to  happen  to  me.  You  go!" 

Chance  trotted  off  a  few  yards  and  then  turned 
his  head  inquiringly. 

"That's  right.  Keep  a-goin'.  It's  your  stunt 
this  time."  And  Sundown  waved  his  arm. 

The  return  of  Sundown  without  the  dog  occa- 
sioned no  suspicion  on  the  Mexican's  part.  He 
most  naturally  thought,  if  he  considered  the  fact 
at  all,  that  the  dog  was  hunting  the  mesas.  Then 
Sundown  entered  the  house  and  experimented 
with  soda  and  cream-of -tartar  as  though  he  were 
concocting  a  high  explosive  with  proportions  of 
the  ingredients  calculated  to  produce  the  most 
satisfactory  results.  His  plan,  however,  was 
nipped  in  the  bud.  That  night  the  herders  re- 
fused to  eat  the  biscuits  after  tasting  them. 

315 


Sundown  Slim 

Hi  Wingle,  coming  from  the  bunk-house,  wiped 
his  hands  on  his  apron,  rolled  a  cigarette,  and 
squatted  in  the  shade.  From  within  came  the 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and  the  rattle  of 
dishes.  The  riders  of  the  Concho  were  about 
through  dinner.  Wingle,  gazing  down  the  road, 
suddenly  cast  his  cigarette  away  and  rose.  The 
road  seemed  empty  save  for  a  lean  brown  shape 
that  raced  toward  the  Concho  with  sweeping 
stride.  " It 's  the  dog.  Wonder  what 's  up  now?  " 

Chance,  his  muzzle  specked  with  froth  and 
his  tongue  lolling,  swung  into  the  yard  and  trotted 
to  Wingle.  "Boss  git  piled  ag'in?"  queried  the 
cook,  patting  Chance's  head.  "What  you 
scratchin'  about?" 

The  dog  lay  panting  and  occasionally  pawing 
at  his  collar. 

"What's  the  matter?  Cockle-burr?"  And 
Wingle  ran  his  fingers  under  the  collar.  "So? 
Playin'  mail-man,  eh?" 

He  spread  out  the  note  and  read  it.  Slowly  he 
straightened  up  and  slowly  he  walked  to  the 
bunk-house.  "No.  Guess  I '11  tellJack  first." 

He  strode  to  the  office  and  laid  the  note  on 
Corliss's  desk.  The  rancher,  busy  running  up 
totals  on  the  pay-roll,  glanced  at  the  sweat- 
stained  piece  of  paper.  He  read  it  and  pushed  it 
from  him.  "All  right,  Hi." 

Wingle  hesitated,  then  stepped  out  and  over 
316 


The  Invaders 

to  the  bunk-house.  "Takes  it  mighty  cool!  Won- 
der what  he's  got  up  his  sleeve.  Somethin' — 
sure!" 

Corliss  studied  the  note.  Then  he  reached  for 
paper  and  envelopes  and  wrote  busily.  One  of 
the  letters  was  to  the  sheriff  in  Antelope.  It  was 
brief. 

I'm  going  to  push  a  bunch  of  stock  over  to  the 
water-hole  range.  My  boys  have  instructions 
not  to  shoot.  That's  the  best  I  can  do  for  them 
and  the  other  side.  JOHN  CORLISS. 

The  other  letter  was  to  Nell  Loring.  Then  he 
rose  and  buckled  on  his  gun.  At  the  bunk-house 
he  gave  the  letters  to  Lone  Johnny,  who  saddled 
and  departed  immediately. 

Without  making  the  contents  of  the  note 
known,  he  told  the  men  that  they  would  join 
Bud  Shoop  and  his  outfit  at  the  Knoll  and  push 
the  herd  north.  Later  he  took  Wingle  aside  and 
told  him  that  he  could  stay  and  look  after  the 
rancho. 

The  indignant  Hi  rolled  down  his  sleeves, 
spat,  and  glared  at  Corliss.  "I  quit,"  he  snapped. 
"You  can  hire  a  new  cook." 

Despite  his  preoccupation  Corliss  smiled.  "All 
right,  Hi.  Now  that  you're  out  of  a  job,  you 
might  saddle  up  and  ride  with  us.  We'll  need 
some  one  to  keep  us  good-natured,  I  reckon." 

317 


Sundown  Slim 

"  Now  you  're  whistlin' ! "  said  Wingle.  "  Got  a 
gun  I  can  use?  I  give  mine  to  Sundown." 

"There's  one  over  in  the  office  on  the  desk. 
But  we're  going  to  push  the  herd  over  to  the 
water-hole.  We're  not  going  there  to  fight." 

"Huh!  Goin' to  be  quiet,  eh?  Mebby  I  better 
take  my  knittin'  along  to  pass  the  time." 

And  Wingle  departed  toward  the  office.  Re- 
joining Corliss  they  rode  with  the  men  to  the 
Knoll.  Bud  Shoop  nodded  gravely  as  his  employer 
told  him  of  Loring's  occupation  of  the  west  bank 
of  the  river.  Then  the  genial  Bud  rode  over  to 
the  herd  that  was  bunched  in  anticipation  of  just 
such  a  contingency  as  had  developed.  "It's  a 
case  of  push  'em  along  easy  —  and  all  night," 
he  told  his  men.  "And  if  any  of  you  boys  is  out 
of  cartridges  there's  plenty  in  the  wagon." 

John  Corliss  rode  with  his  men.  He  told  them 
to  cut  out  any  stray  Two-Bar-O  stock  they  saw 
and  turn  them  back.  Toward  evening  they  had 
the  cattle  in  motion,  drifting  slowly  toward  the 
north.  The  sixteen  riders,  including  Corliss  and 
Wingle,  spread  out  and  pushed  the  herd  across 
the  afternoon  mesas.  The  day  was  hot  and  there 
was  no  water  between  the  Knoll  and  Sundown's 
ranch.  Corliss  intended  to  hold  the  cattle  when 
within  a  mile  of  the  water-hole  by  milling  them 
until  daylight.  When  they  got  the  smell  of  water, 

318 


The  Invaders 

he  knew  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  hold  them 
longer,  nor  did  he  wish  to.  He  regretted  the  fact 
that  Chance  was  running  with  him,  for  he  knew 
that  Loring's  men,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  shoot  the  dog  if  they  had  opportunity. 

Toward  evening  the  outfit  drew  up  in  a  draw 
and  partook  of  a  hearty  supper.  The  cattle  be- 
gan to  lag  as  they  were  urged  forward,  and 
Chance  was  called  into  requisition  to  keep  after 
the  stragglers.  As  the  herd  was  not  large,  —  in 
fact,  numbered  but  five  hundred,  —  it  was  possi- 
ble to  keep  it  moving  steadily  and  well  bunched, 
throughout  the  night. 

Within  a  short  mile  of  the  water-hole  the  riders 
began  to  mill  the  herd. 

Bud  Shoop,  riding  up  to  Corliss,  pointed  to- 
ward the  east.  "Reckon  we  can't  hold  'em  much 
longer,  Jack.  They  're  crazy  dry  —  and  they 
smell  water." 

"All  right,  Bud.  Hold  'em  for  fifteen  minutes 
more.  Then  take  four  of  the  boys  with  you  and 
fan  it  for  the  road.  You  can  cache  in  that  draw 
just  north  of  the  water-hole.  About  sunup  the 
herd '11  break  for  water.  Loring's  outfit  will  be 
plenty  busy  on  this  side,  about  then.  If  he's  got 
any  gunmen  handy,  they'll  be  camped  at  the 
ranch.  Chances  are  that  when  the  cattle  stam- 
pede a  band  or  two  of  sheep,  he'll  turn  his  men 
on  us.  That's  your  time  to  ride  down  and  take 

319 


Sundown  Slim 

possession  of  the  ranch.   Most  likely  you  won't 
have  to  draw  a  gun." 

Shoop  reined  close  to  Corliss  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "Mebby  not,  Jack.  But  if  we  do  —  so- 
long." 

Then  the  genial  Bud  loped  to  the  outriders, 
picking  them  up  one  by  one.  The  cattle,  freed 
from  the  vigilance  of  the  circling  horsemen,  sniffed 
the  dawn,  crowded  to  a  wedge,  and  began  to  trot, 
then  to  run.  Shoop  and  his  four  companions 
spurred  ahead,  swung  to  the  road,  and  thundered 
past  the  ranch-house  as  a  faint  edge  of  light  shot 
over  the  eastern  horizon.  They  entered  the  mouth 
of  the  draw,  swung  around,  and  reined  up. 

"We're  goin'  to  chip  in  when  Jack  opens  the 
pot;"  said  Shoop.  "Just  how  strong  we'll  come 
in  depends  on  how  strong  Jack  opens  her."  Then 
with  seeming  irrelevance  he  remarked  casually: 
"Sinker  was  n't  such  a  bad  ole  scout." 

"Which  Loring's  goin'  to  find  out  right  soon,'* 
said  "Mebby-So,"  a  lean  Texan. 

"Sinker's  sure  goin'  to  have  comp'ny,  I  take 
it,"  remarked  "Bull"  Cassidy. 

"Boss's  orders  is  to  take  her  without  makin' 
any  noise,"  said  Shoop. 

"Huh!  I'm  plumb  disappointed,"  asserted 
Mebby-So.  "I  was  figurin'  on  singin'  hymns  and 
accompanyin'  meself  on  me  —  me  cayuse.  Lis- 
ten! Somethin'  's  broke  loose!" 

320 


The  Invaders 

Thundering  like  an  avalanche  the  herd  swept 
down  on  the  water-hole,  ploughing  through  a 
band  of  sheep  that  were  bedded  down  between 
them  and  the  ranch.  The  herder's  tent  was  torn 
to  ribbons.  Wingle,  trailing  behind  the  herd, 
dismounted,  and,  stooping,  disarmed  the  bruised 
and  battered  Mexican  who  had  struggled  to  his 
feet  as  he  rode  up. 

From  the  water-hole  came  shouts,  and  Corliss 
saw  several  men  come  running  from  the  house  to 
seize  their  horses  and  ride  out  toward  the  cattle. 
The  band  of  riders  opened  up  and  the  distant 
popping  of  Winchesters  told  him  that  the  herders 
were  endeavoring  to  check  the  rush  of  the  thirst- 
maddened  steers.  The  carcasses  of  sheep,  tram- 
pled to  pulp,  lay  scattered  over  the  mesa. 

"It  sure  is  hell!"  remarked  Wingle,  riding  up 
to  Corliss. 

"Hell  is  correct,"  said  Corliss,  spurring  for- 
ward. "Now  I  reckon  we'll  ride  over  to  the 
rancho  and  see  if  Loring  wants  any  more  of  it." 

Silently  the  rancher  and  his  men  rode  toward 
the  water-hole.  As  they  drew  near  the  line  fence, 
the  Mexican  riders,  swinging  in  a  wide  circle, 
spurred  to  head  them  off. 

"Hold  on!"  shouted  Corliss.  "We'll  pull  up 
and  wait  for  'em." 

"Suits  me,"  said  Wingle,  loosening  his  gun 
from  the  holster. 

321 


Sundown  Slim 

The  Mexicans,  led  by  Loring,  loped  up  and 
reined  with  a  slither  of  hoofs  and  the  snorting  of 
excited  ponies.  Corliss  held  up  his  hand.  Loring 
spurred  forward  and  Corliss  rode  to  meet  him. 

"Want  any  more  of  it?"  queried  Corliss. 

"I'll  take  all  you  got,"  snarled  Loring. 

"All  right.  Just  listen  a  minute."  And  Corliss 
reached  in  his  saddle-pocket.  "Here's  a  lease 
from  the  Government  covering  the  ten  sections 
adjoining  the  water-hole  ranch,  on  the  south  and 
west.  And  here's  a  contract  with  the  owner  of 
the  water-hole,  signed  and  witnessed,  for  the  use 
of  the  water  for  my  stock.  You're  playing  an 
old-fashioned  game,  Loring,  that's  out  of  date. 
Want  to  look  over  these  papers?" 

"To  hell  with  your  papers.  I'm  here  and  I'm 
goin'  to  stay." 

"Well,  we'll  visit  you  reg'lar,"  shouted  a 
puncher. 

"Better  come  over  to  the  house  and  talk  things 
over,"  said  Corliss.  "I  don't  want  trouble  with 
you  —  but  my  boys  do." 

Loring  hesitated.  One  of  his  men,  spurring  up, 
whispered  to  him. 

Wingle,  keenly  alert,  restrained  a  cowboy  who 
was  edging  forward.  "Don't  start  nothin',"  he 
said.  "  If  she 's  goin'  to  start,  she  '11  start  herself." 

Loring  turned  to  Corliss.  "I'd  like  to  look  at 
them  papers,"  he  said  slowly. 

322 


The  Invaders 

"All  right.   We'll  ride  over  to  the  house." 

The  two  bands  of  riders  swung  toward  the 
north,  passed  the  tank,  and  trotted  up  to  the 
ranch-gate.  They  dismounted  and  were  met  by 
Shoop  and  his  companions.  Loring  blinked  and 
muttered.  He  had  been  outgeneraled.  One  of 
the  Concho  riders  laughed.  Loring's  hand  slipped 
to  his  belt.  "Don't,"  said  Corliss  easily.  The 
tension  relaxed,  and  the  men  began  joking  and 
laughing. 

"Where's  Sundown?"  queried  Corliss. 

Loring  gestured  toward  the  house. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Wingle.  And  he  shouldered 
through  the  group  of  scowling  herders  and  entered 
the  house. 

Sundown,  with  hands  tied,  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  his  bed.  "They  roped  me,"  he  said  lugu- 
briously, "in  me  own  house.  Bud  he  was  goin' 
to  untie  me,  but  I  says  for  the  love  of  Mike  leave 
me  tied  or  I  '11  take  a  chair  and  brain  that  Chola 
what  kicked  Gentle  Annie  in  the  stummick  this 
mornin'.  He  was  goin'  to  milk  her  and  I  reckon 
she  did  n't  like  his  looks.  Anyhow,  she  laid  him 
out  with  a  kind  of  hind-leg  upper-cut.  When  he 
come  to,  he  set  in  to  kickin'  her.  I  got  his  picture 
and  if  I  get  me  hands  on  him  .  .  ." 

Wingle  cut  the  rope  and  Sundown  stood  up. 
"They  swiped  me  gun,"  he  asserted. 

"Here's  one  I  took  off  a  herder,"  said  Wingle. 
323 


Sundown  Slim 

"If  things  get  to  boilin'  over  —  why,  jest  nach- 
erally  wilt  the  legs  from  under  anything  that 
looks  like  a  Chola.  Jack's  got  the  cards,  all 
right  —  but  I  don't  jest  like  the  look  of  things. 
Loring's  in  the  corner  and  he's  got  his  back 
up." 

As  they  came  from  the  house,  Loring  was  read- 
ing the  papers  that  Corliss  had  handed  to  him. 
The  old  sheep-man  glanced  at  the  signatures  on 
the  documents  and  then  slowly  folded  them,  hesi- 
tated, and  with  a  quick  turn  of  his  wrist  tore 
them  and  flung  the  pieces  in  Corliss's  face.  "That 
for  your  law!  We  stay!" 

Corliss  bit  his  lip,  and  the  dull  red  of  restrained 
anger  burned  in  his  face.  He  had  gone  too  far  to 
retreat  or  retract.  He  knew  that  his  men  would 
lose  all  respect  for  him  if  he  backed  down  now. 
Yet  he  was  unable  to  frame  a  plan  whereby  he 
might  avoid  the  arbitration  of  the  six-gun.  His 
men  eyed  him  curiously.  Was  Jack  going  to  show 
a  yellow  streak?  They  thought  that  he  would 
not  —  and  yet  .  .  . 

Sundown  raised  his  long  arm  and  pointed. 
"There's  the  gent  what  kicked  me  cow,"  he  said, 
his  face  white  and  his  eyes  burning. 

The  punchers  of  the  Concho  laughed.  "Jump 
him!"  shouted  "Bull"  Cassidy.  "We'll  stand 
by  and  see  that  there's  no  monkeyin'." 

Corliss  held  up  his  hand.  The  Mexicans  drew 
324 


The  Invaders 

together  and  the  age-old  hatred  for  the  Gringo 
burned  in  their  beady  eyes. 

Sundown's  thin  lips  drew  tight.  "I've  a  good 
mind  to — "  he  began.  The  Mexican  who  had 
maltreated  the  cow  mistook  Sundown's  gesture 
for  intent  to  kill.  The  herder's  gun  whipped  up. 
Sundown  grabbed  a  chair  that  stood  tilted  against 
the  house  and  swung  it.  The  Mexican  went 
down.  With  the  accidental  explosion  of  the  gun, 
Mebby-So  grunted,  put  his  hand  to  his  side,  and 
toppled  from  the  saddle.  Corliss  wheeled  his 
horse. 

"Don't  shoot,  boys!"  he  shouted. 

His  answer  was  a  roar  of  six-guns.  He  felt 
Chinook  shiver.  He  jumped  clear  as  the  horse 
rolled  to  its  side.  Sundown,  retreating  to  the 
house,  flung  open  the  bedroom  window  and  kneel- 
ing, laid  the  barrel  of  his  gun  on  the  sill.  Delib- 
erately he  sighted,  hesitated,  and  flung  the  gun 
from  him.  "  God  A'mighty  —  I  ought  to  —  but  I 
can't!"  He  had  seen  Corliss  fall  and  thought 
that  he  had  been  killed.  He  saw  a  Mexican  raise 
his  gun  to  fire;  saw  him  suddenly  straighten  in 
the  saddle.  Then  the  gun  dropped  from  his  hand, 
and  he  bent  forward  upon  his  horse,  recovered, 
swayed  a  moment,  and  fell  limply. 

Bud  Shoop,  on  foot,  ran  around  to  the  rear  of 
the  house.  His  horse  lay  kicking,  shot  through 
the  stomach.  The  foreman  drew  himself  up 

325 


Sundown  Slim 

under  cover  of  the  hen-house  and  fired  into  the 
huddle  of  Mexicans  that  swept  around  the  yard 
as  the  riders  of  the  Concho  drove  them  back.  He 
saw  "Bull"  Cassidy  in  the  thick  of  it,  swinging 
his  guns  and  swearing  heartily.  Finally  a  Mexi- 
can pony,  wounded  and  wild  with  fright,  tore 
through  the  barb-wire  fence.  Behind  him  spurred 
the  herders.  Out  on  the  mesa  they  turned  and 
threw  lead  at  the  Concho  riders,  who  retreated 
to  the  cover  of  the  house.  Corliss  caught  up  a 
herder's  horse  and  rode  around  to  them.  Shorty, 
one  of  his  men,  grinned,  fell  to  coughing,  and 
sank  forward  on  his  horse. 

"Loring's  down,"  said  Wingle,  solemnly  re- 
loading his  gun.  "  Think  they  got  enough,  Jack?  " 

"Loring,  eh?  Well,  I  know  who  got  him.  Yes, 
they  got  enough." 

Shorty,  vomiting  blood,  wiped  his  lips  on  his 
sleeve.  "Well,  I  ain't — not  yet,"  he  gasped. 
"7'ra  goin'  to  finish  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  Come  on, 
boys!"  And  he  whirled  his  horse.  Swaying 
drunkenly  he  spurred  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  through  the  gateway. 

Corliss  glanced  at  Wingle.  "We  can't  let  him 
ride  into  'em  by  his  lonesome,"  said  Wingle. 
"Eh,  boys?" 

"Not  on  your  fat  life!"  said  Bull  Cassidy.  "I 
got  one  wing  that's  workin'  and  I'm  goin'  to  fly 
her  till  she  gits  busted." 

326 


The  Invaders 

"Let's  clean  'em  up!  Might's  well  do  a  good 
job  now  we're  at  it.  Where's  Bud?" 

"He's  layin'  over  there  back  of  the  chicken- 
roost.  Reckon  he's  thinkin'  things  over.  He 
ain't  sayin'  much." 

"Bud  down,  too?  Then  I  guess  we  ride!" 
And  they  swept  out  after  Shorty.  They  saw 
the  diminutive  cowboy  tear  through  the  band  of 
herders,  his  gun  going;  saw  his  horse  stumble  and 
fall  and  a  figure  pitch  from  the  saddle  and  roll  to 
one  side.  "  And  if  I'm  goin'  —  I  want  to  go  out 
that  way,"  shouted  Bull  Cassidy.  "Shorty  was 
some  sport!" 

But  the  Mexicans  had  had  enough  of  it.  They 
wheeled  and  spurred  toward  the  south.  The 
Concho  horses,  worn  out  by  the  night-journey, 
were  soon  distanced. 

Corliss  pulled  up.  "  Catch  up  a  fresh  horse,  Hi. 
And  let  Banks  know  how  things  stand.  If  Loring 
is  n't  all  in,  you  might  fetch  the  doctor  back  with 
you.  We'll  need  him,  anyway." 

"Sure!  Wonder  who  that  is  fannin'  it  this 
way?  Don't  look  like  a  puncher." 

Corliss  turned  and  gazed  down  the  road.  From 
the  south  came  little  puffs  of  dust  as  a  black-and- 
white  pinto  running  at  top  speed  swept  toward 
them.  He  paled  as  he  recognized  the  horse. 

"It's  Loring's  girl,"  said  Wingle,  glancing  at 
Corliss. 

327 


Sundown  Slim 

Nell  Loring  reined  up  as  she  came  opposite  the 
Concho  riders  and  turned  from  the  road.  The 
men  glanced  at  each  other.  Then  ensued  an  awk- 
ward silence.  The  girl's  face  was  white  and  her 
dark  eyes  burned  with  reproach  as  she  saw  the 
trampled  sheep  and  here  and  there  the  figure  of  a 
man  prone  on  the  mesa.  Corliss  raised  his  hat  as 
she  rode  up.  She  sat  her  horse  gazing  at  the  men. 
Without  a  word  she  turned  and  rode  toward  the 
ranch-house.  The  Concho  riders  jingled  along, 
in  no  hurry  to  face  the  scene  which  they  knew 
awaited  them  at  the  water-hole. 

She  was  on  her  knees  supporting  her  father's 
head  when  they  dismounted  and  shuffled  into  the 
yard.  The  old  sheep-man  blinked  and  tried  to 
raise  himself.  One  of  the  Concho  boys  stepped 
forward  and  helped  her  get  the  wounded  man 
to  the  house. 

Corliss  strode  to  the  bedroom  and  spoke  to 
Sundown  who  turned  and  sat  up.  "Get  hit, 
Sun?" 

"No.  But  I'm  feelin' kind  of  sick.  Is  the  ole 
man  dead?" 

"He's  hurt,  but  not  bad.   We  want  the  bed." 

Sundown  got  to  his  feet  and  sidled  past  the  girl 
as  she  helped  her  father  to  the  bed. 

"I  sent  for  the  doctor,"  said  Corliss. 

The  girl  whirled  and  faced  him.  "You!"  she 
exclaimed  — "You!" 

328 


YOU!"   SHE  EXCLAIMED.     "YOU! 


The  Invaders 

The  rancher's  shoulders  straightened.  "Yes  — 
and  it  was  my  gun  got  him.  You  might  as  well 
know  all  there  is  to  it."  Then  he  turned  and,  fol- 
lowed by  Sundown,  stepped  to  the  yard.  "We'll 
keep  busy  while  we're  waiting.  Any  of  you  boys 
that  feel  like  riding  can  round  up  the  herd.  Hi 
and  I  will  look  after  —  the  rest  of  it." 

"And  Bud,"  suggested  a  rider. 

They  found  Shoop  on  the  ground,  the  flesh  of 
his  shoulder  torn  away  by  a  .45  and  a  welt  of  red 
above  his  ear  where  a  Mexican's  bullet  had 
creased  him.  They  carried  him  to  the  house. 
"Sun,  you  might  stir  around  and  rustle  some 
grub.  The  boys  will  want  to  eat  directly."  And 
Corliss  stepped  to  the  water-trough,  washed  his 
hands,  and  then  rolled  a  cigarette.  Hi  Wingle 
sat  beside  him  as  they  waited  for  dinner.  Sud- 
denly Corliss  turned  to  his  cook.  "I  guess  we've 
won  out,  Hi,"  he  said. 

"Generally  speakin'  —  we  sure  have,"  said 
Wingle.  "But  I  reckon  you  lost." 

Corliss  nodded. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"JUST  ME  AND  HER" 

SHERIFF  BANKS  tossed  Corliss's  note  on  his 
desk,  reached  in  his  pocket  and  drew  forth  a  jack- 
knife  with  which  he  began  to  trim  his  finger-nails. 
He  paid  no  apparent  attention  to  the  arrival  of 
one  of  his  deputies,  but  proceeded  with  his  man- 
ipulation of  the  knife.  The  deputy  sidled  to  a 
chair  and  sat  watching  the  sheriff. 

Presently  Banks  closed  his  knife,  slid  it  into 
his  pocket,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Lone 
Johnny  gone  back?"  he  queried. 

The  deputy  nodded. 

Banks  proffered  his  companion  a  cigar  and  lit 
one  himself.  For  a  while  he  smoked  and  gazed  at 
the  ceiling.  "I  got  two  cards  to  play,"  he  said, 
straightening  up  and  brushing  cigar-ash  from  his 
vest.  "Last  election  was  pretty  close.  By  rights 
I  ought  to  be  at  the  county-seat.  Got  any  idea 
why  they  side-tracked  me  here  in  Antelope?" 

The  deputy  grinned.  "It's  right  handy  to  the 
line.  And  I  guess  they  saw  what  was  comin'  and 
figured  to  put  you  up  against  it.  They  could  n't 
beat  you  at  the  polls,  so  they  tried  to  put  you 
where  you  would  n't  come  back." 

330 


"Just  Me  and  Her" 

"Correct.  And  there's  no  use  running  against 
the  rope.  Now  I  want  you  to  call  on  every  citi- 
zen in  Antelope  and  tell  every  dog-goned  one  of 
'em  what  Lone  Johnny  kind  of  hinted  at  regard- 
ing the  Concho  and  Loring.  And  show  'em  this 
note  from  Jack.  Tell  'em  I'm  going  to  swear  in 
each  of  'em  as  a  special.  I  want  to  go  on  record 
as  having  done  what  I  could." 

The  deputy  rose.  "All  right,  Jim.  Kind  of 
late  to  make  that  move,  ain't  it?" 

"I  got  another  card,"  said  the  sheriff.  "Tell 
'em  we'll  be  ready  to  start  about  twelve.  It's 
ten,  now." 

With  the  departure  of  the  deputy  the  sheriff 
reached  in  his  desk  and  brought  forth  a  book.  It 
was  thumbed  and  soiled.  He  turned  the  pages 
slowly,  pausing  to  read  a  line  here  and  there. 
Finally  he  settled  back  and  became  immersed  in 
the  perennial  delight  of  "Huckleberry  Finn." 
He  read  uninterruptedly  for  an  hour,  drifting  on 
the  broad  current  of  the  Mississippi  to  eventually 
disembark  in  Antelope  as  the  deputy  shadowed 
the  doorway.  The  sheriff  closed  the  book  and 
glanced  up.  He  read  his  answer  in  the  deputy's 
eyes. 

"'T  ain't  that  they  don't  like  you,"  said  the 
deputy.  "But  they  ain't  one  of  'em  that'll  do 
anything  for  Loring  or  do  anything  against  Jack 
Corliss." 

331 


Sundown  Slim 

The  sheriff  smiled.  "Public  opinion  is  setting 
on  the  fence  and  hanging  on  with  both  hands. 
All  right,  Joe.  I'll  play  her  alone.  I  got  a  wire 
from  Hank  that  he's  got  the  herder,  Fernando. 
Due  here  on  the  two-thirty.  You  hang  around 
and  tell  Hank  to  keep  on  —  take  the  Mexican 
along  up  to  Usher." 

"Goin5  to  go  after  the  Concho  boys  and  Lor- 
ing's  herders?" 

"Sure  thing.  And  I'm  going  alone.  Then 
they  won't  make  a  fuss.  They'll  come  back  with 
me  all  right." 

"But  you  could  n't  get  a  jury  to  send  one  of 
'em  over  —  not  in  this  county." 

"Correct,  Joe.  But  the  county's  paying  me  to 
go  through  the  motions  —  don't  matter  what  I 
think  personally.  If  they've  pulled  off  a  shoot- 
ing-match at  the  water-hole,  the  thing's  settled 
by  this  time.  It  had  to  come  and  if  it 's  over,  I  'm 
dam'  glad.  It'll  clear  the  air  for  quite  a  spell  to 


come." 


"The  papers '11  sure  make  a  holler — "  began 
the  deputy. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  think.  They  got  one 
good  reason  to  keep  still  and  that 's  because  the 
free  range  is  like  to  be  opened  up  to  homesteaders 
any  day.  Too  much  noise  about  cattle-and-sheep 
war  would  scare  good  money  from  coming  to  the 
State.  I  heard  the  other  day  that  that  Sundown 

332 


"Just  Me  and  Her" 

Jack  picked  up  is  settled  at  the  water-hole.  I 
took  him  for  a  tenderfoot  once.  I  reckon  he  ain't. 
It 's  hard  to  figure  on  those  queer  kind.  Well,  you 
meet  the  two-thirty.  I  guess  I  '11  ride  over  to  the 
Concho  and  see  the  boys." 

The  Loring-Corliss  case  is  now  a  matter  of 
record  in  the  dusty  files  of  the  "Usher  Sentinel" 
and  its  decidedly  disesteemed  contemporary,  the 
"Mesa  News."  The  case  was  dismissed  for  lack 
of  anything  like  definite  evidence,  though  Loring 
and  Corliss  were  bound  over  to  keep  the  peace. 
Incidentally  one  tall  and  angular  witness  refused 
to  testify,  and  was  sentenced  to  pay  a  not  insig- 
nificant fine  for  contempt  of  court.  That  his  fine 
was  promptly  paid  by  Corliss  furnished  a  more  or 
less  gratuitous  excuse  for  a  wordy  vilification  of 
the  rancher  and  his  "hireling  assassin,"  "men- 
ace to  public  welfare,"  and  the  like.  Sundown, 
however,  stuck  to  his  guns,  even  to  the  extent  of 
searching  out  the  editor  of  the  "Mesa  News" 
and  offering  graciously  to  engage  in  hand-to- 
hand  combat,  provided  the  editor,  or  what  was 
left  of  him  after  the  battle,  would  insert  an 
apology  in  the  next  issue  of  the  paper  —  the 
apology  to  be  dictated  by  Sundown. 

The  editor  temporized  by  asking  the  indignant 
Sundown  to  frame  the  apology,  which  he  did. 
Then  the  wily  autocrat  of  the  "Mesa  News," 

333 


Sundown  Slim 

after  reading  the  apology,  agreed  to  an  armistice 
and  mentioned  the  fact  that  it  was  a  hot  day. 
Sundown  intimated  that  he  knew  one  or  two 
places  in  Usher  which  he  was  not  averse  to  visit- 
ing under  the  circumstances.  And  so  the  treaty 
was  ratified. 

Perhaps  among  Sundown's  possessions  there  is 
none  so  cherished,  speaking  broadly,  as  a  certain 
clipping  from  an  Arizona  newspaper  in  which  the 
editor  prints  a  strangely  worded  and  colorful 
apology,  above  his  personal  signature,  for  having 
been  misled  temporarily  in  his  estimation  of  a 
"certain  person  of  warlike  proclivities  who  vis- 
ited our  sanctum  bent  upon  eradicating  us  in  a 
physical  sense."  The  apology  follows.  In  a  sep- 
arate paragraph,  however,  is  this  information: 
"We  find  it  imperative,  however,  to  state  that 
the  above  apology  is  a  personal  matter  and  in  no 
wise  affects  our  permanent  attitude  toward  the 
lawlessness  manifest  so  recently  in  our  midst. 
Moreover,  we  were  forced  at  the  muzzle  of  a  six- 
shooter,  in  the  hands  of  the  above-mentioned 
Sundown,  to  insert  that  illiterate  and  blood- 
thirsty gentleman's  screed  in  the  MESA  NEWS, 
as  he,  together  with  the  gang  of  cutthroats  with 
whom  he  seems  in  league,  stood  over  us  with  drawn 
weapons  until  the  entire  issue  had  been  run  off. 
Such  is  the  condition  of  affairs  under  the  present 
corrupt  administration  of  our  suffering  State." 

334. 


"Just  Me  and  Her" 

Such  advertising,  Sundown  reflected,  breath- 
ing of  battle  and  carnage,  would  obviate  the  ne- 
cessity for  future  upholding  of  his  reputation  in  a 
physical  sense.  Great  is  the  power  of  the  press! 
It  became  whispered  about  that  he  was  a  two- 
gun  man  of  dexterous  attainments  in  dispensing 
lead  and  that  his  mild  and  even  apologetic  man- 
ner was  but  a  cloak.  Accident  and  the  tongues  of 
men  earned  for  Sundown  that  peace  which  he  so 
thoroughly  loved.  He  became  immune  to  strife. 
When  he  felt  his  outward  attitude  sagging  a  lit- 
tle, he  re-read  the  clipping  and  braced  up. 

Sundown  rode  to  the  Concho  gate,  dismounted 
and  opened  it.  Chance  ran  ahead,  leaping  up  as 
Corliss  came  from  the  ranch-house. 

"Got  them  holes  plugged  in  the  tank,"  said 
Sundown.  "Got  the  engine  runnin'  ag'in  and 
things  is  fine.  You  goin'  to  put  them  cattle  back 
on  the  water-hole  range?" 

"Yes,  as  soon  as  Bud  can  get  around  again. 
He's  up,  but  he  can't  ride  yet." 

"How's  Bull?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  Mebby-So's  laid  up  yet. 
He  got  it  pretty  bad." 

"Well,  I  reckon  they  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  more 
fightin'  'bout  cattle  and  sheep.  I  stopped  by  to 
the  Loring  ranch.  Ole  man  Loring  was  sure  ugly, 
so  I  reckon  he's  feelin'  nacheral  ag'in.  He  was 
like  to  get  mad  at  me  for  stoppin',  but  his  gal, 

335 


Sundown  Slim 

Nell,  she  smoothed  down  his  wool  and  asked  me 
to  stay  and  eat.  I  was  n't  feelin'  extra  hungry, 
so  I  come  along  up  here." 

"I  have  some  good  news,"  said  Corliss.  "Got 
a  letter  from  Billy  last  week.  Did  n't  have  time 
to  tell  you.  He's  working  for  a  broker  in  'Frisco. 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  should  turn  up  one  of 
these  days.  How  would  you  like  to  drive  over  to 
Antelope  and  meet  him  when  he  comes?" 

"I'd  sure  be  glad.  Always  did  like  Billy. 
'Course  you  don't  know  when  he's  comin'  — 
and  I  got  to  do  some  drivin'  meself  right  soon." 

"So?" 

"Yep.  'Course  I  got  the  wagon,  but  they  ain't 
no  style  to  that.  I  was  wantin'  a  rig  with  style 
to  it  —  like  the  buckboard."  Sundown  fidgeted 
nervously  with  the  buttons  of  his  shirt.  He 
coughed,  took  off  his  hat,  and  mopped  his  face 
with  a  red  bandanna.  Despite  his  efforts  he  grew 
warmer  and  warmer.  He  was  about  to  approach 
a  delicate  subject.  Finally  he  seized  the  bull  by 
the  horns,  so  to  speak,  and  his  tanned  face  grew 
red.  "I  was  wantin'  to  borrow  that  buckboard, 
mebby,  Saturday." 

6 '  Sure !     Going  to  Antelope  ? ' ' 

"Nope  —  not  first.  I  got  business  over  to 
Chico  Miguel's  place.  I'm  goin'  to  call  on  a 
lady." 

"Oh,  I  see!    Anita?" 
336 


"Just  Me  and  Her'' 

"Well,  I  sure  ain't  goin'  to  call  on  her  ma  — 
she's  married  a'ready." 

Despite  himself,  Corliss  smiled.  "So  that's 
what  you  wanted  that  new  bed  and  table  and  the 
chairs  for.  Did  they  get  marked  up  much  coming 
in?" 

"The  legs  some.  I  rubbed  'em  with  that  hoss- 
liniment  you  give  me.  You  can  hardly  tell.  It 
kind  of  smelled  like  turpentine,  and  I  did  n't 
have  nothin'  else." 

"Well,  anything  you  want  — " 

"I  know,  boss.  But  this  is  goin'  to  be  a  quiet 
weddin'.  No  brass-bands  or  ice-cream  or  pop- 
corn or  style.  Just  me  and  her  and  —  and  I 
reckon  a  priest,  seein'  she  was  brung  up  that  way. 
I  ain't  asked  her  yet." 

"  What?  About  getting  married,  or  the  priest?  " 

"Nothin'.  We  got  kind  of  a  eye-understandin* 
and  her  ma  and  me  is  good  friends.  It's  like  this. 
Bein'  no  hand  to  do  love-makin'  stylish,  I  just 
passes  her  a  couple  of  bouquets  onct  or  twict  and 
said  a  few  words.  Now,  you  see,  if  I  get  that 
buckboard  and  a  couple  of  hosses  —  I  sure  would 
like  the  white  ones  —  and  drive  over  lookin'  like 
business  and  slip  the  ole  man  a  box  of  cigars 
I  bought,  and  Mrs.  Miguel  that  there  red-and- 
yella  serape  I  paid  ten  dollars  for  in  Antelope, 
and  show  Anita  me  new  contract  with  the  Concho 
for  pumpin'  water  for  seventy-five  bones  a 

337 


Sundown  Slim 

month,  I  reckon  the  rest  of  it'll  come  easy.  I'm 
figurin'  strong  on  them  white  hosses,  likewise. 
Bein'  white '11  kind  of  look  like  gettin'  married, 
without  me  sayin'  it.  You  see,  boss,  I'm  short 
on  the  Spanish  talk  and  so  I  have  to  do  some 
figurin'." 

"Well,  Sun,  you  have  come  along  a  lot  since 
you  first  hit  the  Concho!  Go  ahead,  and  good 
luck  to  you!  If  you  need  any  money  — 

"I  was  comin'  to  that.  Seein'  as  you  kind  of 
know  me  —  and  seein'  I  'm  goin'  to  git  hitched 
—  I  was  thinkin'  you  might  lend  me  mebby  a 
hundred  on  the  contrac'." 

"I  guess  I  can.   Will  that  be  enough?" 

"Plenty.  You  see  I  was  figurin'  on  buyin'  a 
few  head  of  stock  to  run  with  yourn  on  the  water- 
hole  range." 

"Why,  I  can  let  you  have  the  stock.  You  can 
pay  me  when  you  get  ready." 

"That's  just  it.  You'd  kind  of  give  'em  to  me 
and  I  ain't  askin'  favors,  except  the  buckboard 
and  the  white  hosses." 

"But  what  do  you  want  to  monkey  with  cattle 
for?  You're  doing  pretty  well  with  the  water." 

"That's  just  it.  You  see,  Anita  thinks  I'm  a 
rarin',  high-ridin',  cussin',  tearin',  bronco-bustin' 
cow-puncher  from  over  the  hill.  I  reckon  you 
know  I  ain't,  but  I  got  to  live  up  to  it  and  kind 
of  let  her  down  easy-like.  I  can  put  on  me  spurs 


"Just  Me  and  Her'1 

and  chaps  onct  or  twict  a  week  and  go  flyin'  out 
and  whoopin'  around  me  stock,  and  scarin'  'em 
to  death,  pertendin'  I'm  mighty  interested  in 
ridin'  range.  If  you  got  a  lady's  goat,  you  want 
to  keep  it.  'Course,  later  on,  I  can  kind  o'  slack 
up.  Then  I  'm  goin'  to  learn  her  to  read  American, 
and  she  can  read  that  piece  in  the  paper  about  me. 
I  reckon  that  '11  kind  of  cinch  up  the  idea  that  her 
husband  sure  is  the  real  thing.  But  I  got  to  have 
them  cows  till  she  can  learn  to  read." 

"We've  got  to  brand  a  few  yearlings  that  got 
by  last  round-up.  Bud  said  there  was  about 
fifteen  of  them.  You  can  ride  over  after  you  get 
settled  and  help  cut  'em  out.  What  iron  do  you 
want  to  put  on  them?" 

"Well,  seein'  it's  me  own  brand,  I  reckon  it 
will  be  like  this :  A  kind  of  half -circle  for  the  sun, 
and  a  lot  of  little  lines  runnin'  out  to  show  that 
it's  shinin',  and  underneath  a  straight  line 
meanin'  the  earth,  which  is  '  Sundown '  —  me 
own  brand.  Could  Johnny  make  one  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  That's  a  pretty  big  order. 
You  go  over  and  tell  Johnny  what  you  want. 
And  I'll  send  the  buckboard  over  Saturday." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IMPROVEMENTS 

OUT  in  a  field  bordered  by  the  roadway  a  man 
toiled  behind  a  disk-plough.  He  trudged  with 
seven-league  strides  along  the  furrows,  disdain- 
ing to  ride  on  the  seat  of  the  plough.  To  effect 
a  comfortable  following  of  his  operations  he  had 
lengthened  the  reins  with  clothes-line.  He  drove 
a  team  of  old  and  gentle  white  horses  as  wheelers. 
His  lead  animals  were  mules,  neither  old  nor 
gentle.  It  is  possible  that  this  fact  accounted  for 
his  being  afoot.  He  was  arrayed  in  cowboy  boots 
and  chaps,  a  faded  flannel  shirt,  and  a  Stetson. 
Despite  the  fact  that  a  year  had  passed  since  he 
had  practically  "Lochinvared"  the  most  willing 
Anita,  —  though  with  the  full  and  joyous  con- 
sent of  her  parents,  —  he  still  clung  to  the  habili- 
ments of  the  cowboy,  feeling  that  they  offset 
the  more  or  less  menial  requirements  of  tilling 
the  soil.  Behind  him  trailed  a  lean,  shaggy  wolf- 
dog  who  nosed  the  furrows  occasionally  and  dug 
for  prairie-dogs  with  intermittent  zest. 

The  toiler,  too  preoccupied  with  his  ploughing 
to  see  more  than  his  horses'  heads  and  the  im- 
mediate unbroken  territory  before  them,  did  not 

340 


Improvements 

realize  that  a  team  had  stopped  out  on  the  road 
and  that  a  man  had  leaped  from  the  buckboard 
and  was  standing  at  the  fence.  Chance,  however, 
saw  the  man,  and,  running  to  Sundown,  whined. 
Sundown  pulled  up  his  team  and  wiped  his  brow. 
"Hurt  your  foot  ag'in?"  he  queried.  "Nope? 
Then  what's  wrong?" 

The  man  in  the  road  called. 

Sundown  wheeled  and  stood  with  mouth  open. 
"It's  —  Gee  Gosh!  It's  Billy!" 

He  observed  that  a  young  and  fashionably 
attired  woman  sat  in  the  buckboard  holding  the 
team.  He  fumbled  at  his  shirt  and  buttoned  it 
at  the  neck.  Then  he  swung  his  team  around  and 
started  toward  the  fence. 

Will  Corliss,  attired  in  a  quiet-hued  business 
suit,  his  cheeks  healthfully  pink  and  his  eye  clear, 
smiled  as  the  lean  one  tied  the  team  and  stalked 
toward  him. 

Corliss  held  out  his  hand.  Sundown  shook  his 
head.  "Excuse  me,  Billy,  but  I  ain't  shakin' 
hands  with  you  across  no  fence." 

And  Sundown  wormed  his  length  between  the 
wires  and  straightened  up,  extending  a  tanned 
and  hairy  paw.  "Shake,  pardner!  Say,  you're 
lookin'  gorjus!" 

"My  wife,"  said  Corliss. 

Sundown  doffed  his  sombrero  sweepingly. 
"Welcome  to  Arizona,  ma'am." 

341 


Sundown  Slim 

"This  is  my  friend,  Washington  Hicks,  Mar- 
gery." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Sundown.  "It  ain't  my 
fault,  neither.  I  had  nothin'  to  say  about  it  when 
they  hitched  that  name  onto  me.  I  reckon  I  hol- 
lered, but  it  did  n't  do  no  good.  Me  pals  "  -  and 
Sundown  shrugged  his  shoulder  —  "mostly  gents 
travelin'  for  their  health  —  got  to  callin'  me 
Sundown,  which  is  more  poetical.  'Course,  when 
I  got  married  - 

"Married!"  exclaimed  Corliss,  grinning. 

"You  need  n't  to  grin,  Billy.  Gettin'  married 's 
mighty  responsible-like." 

Corliss  made  a  gesture  of  apology.  "So  you're 
homesteading  the  water-hole?  Jack  wrote  to  me 
about  it.  He  didn't  say  anything  about  your 
getting  married." 

"Kind  of  like  his  not  say  in'  anything  about 
your  gettin'  hitched  up,  eh?    He  said  he  was 
hearin'  from  you,  but  nothin'  about  Misses  Cor- 
liss. Please  to  expect  my  congratulations,  ma'am 
-  and  you,  too,  Billy." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Mrs.  Corliss,  smiling. 
"Will  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  you." 

"He  has,  eh?  Well,  I'm  right  glad  to  be  ac- 
quainted by  heresy.  It  kind  of  puts  you  on  to 
what  to  expect.  But  say,  it 's  hot  here.  If  you  '11 
drive  back  to  me  house,  I  'd  sure  like  to  show  you 
the  improvements." 

342 


Improvements 

"All  right,  Sun!  We'll  drive  right  in  and  wait 
for  you." 

They  did  not  have  to  wait,  however.  Sun- 
down, leaving  his  team  at  the  fence,  took  a  short 
cut  to  the  house.  He  entered  the  back  door  and 
called  to  Anita. 

"Neeter,"  he  said,  as  she  hastened  to  answer 
him,  "they's  some  friends  of  mine  just  drivin' 
up.  If  you  could  kind  of  make  a  quick  change 
and  put  on  that  white  dress  with  the  leetle 
roses  sprinkled  on  it  —  quick;  and  is  —  is  he 
sleepin'?" 

"Si!  He  is  having  the  good  sleep." 

"Fine!  I'll  hold  'em  off  till  you  get  fixed  up. 
It's  me  ole  pal,  Billy  Corliss,  —  and  he's  brung 
along  a  wife.  We  got  to  make  a  good  front,  seein' 
it 's  kind  of  unexpected.  Wrastle  into  that  purty 
dress  and  don't  wake  him  up." 

"Si!Igoqueek." 

"Why,  this  is  fine!"  said  Corliss,  entering,  hat 
in  hand,  and  gazing  about  the  room.  "It's  as 
snug  and  picturesque  as  a  lodge." 

"Beautiful!"  exclaimed  the  enthusiastic  Mar- 
gery, gazing  at  the  Navajo  rugs,  the  clean,  white- 
washed walls  against  which  the  red  ollas,  filled 
with  wild  flowers,  made  a  pretty  picture,  and  the 
great  grizzly-bear  rug  thrown  across  a  home- 
made couch.  "It's  actually  romantic!" 

343 


Sundown  Slim 

"Me  long  suit,  lady.  We  ain't  got  much,  but 
what  we  got  goes  with  this  kind  of  country." 

Margery  smiled.  "Oh,  Will,  I'd  like  a  home 
like  this.  Just  simple  and  clean  —  and  comfort- 
able. It's  a  real  home." 

"Me  wife's  comin'  in  a  minute.  While  she's 
—  er  —  combin'  her  hair,  mebby  you'd  like  to 
see  some  of  the  improvements."  And  Sundown 
marched  proudly  to  the  new  dining-room  — 
an  extension  that  he  had  built  himself  —  and 
waved  an  invitation  for  his  guests  to  behold  and 
marvel. 

The  dining-room  was,  in  its  way,  also  pictur- 
esque. The  exceedingly  plain  table  was  covered 
with  a  clean  white  cloth.  The  furniture,  owing  to 
some  fortunate  accident  of  choice,  was  not  ornate 
but  of  plain  straight  lines,  redeemed  by  painted 
ollas  filled  with  flowers.  The  white  walls  were  dec- 
orated with  two  pictures,  a  lithograph  of  the  Ma- 
donna, —  which  seemed  entirely  in  keeping  with 
the  general  tone  of  the  room,  but  which  would 
have  looked  glaringly  out  of  place  anywhere 
else,  —  and  an  enlarged  full-length  photograph, 
framed,  of  an  exceedingly  tall  and  gorgeous  cow- 
boy, hat  in  hand,  quirt  on  wrist,  and  looking 
extremely  impressive.  Beside  the  cow-boy  stood 
a  great,  shaggy  dog  —  Chance.  And,  by  chance, 
the  picture  was  a  success. 

"Why,  it's  you,  Sun!"  exclaimed  Corliss, 
344 


Improvements 

striding  to  the  picture.  "And  it's  a  dandy!  I'd 
hang  it  in  the  front  room." 

"That's  what  Neeter  was  sayin'.  But  I  kind 
of  like  it  in  here.  You  see,  Neeter  sets  there  and  I 
set  here  where  I  can  see  me  picture  while  I'm 
eatin'.  It  kind  of  gives  me  a  good  appetite. 
'Course,  lookin'  out  the  window  is  fine.  See  them 
there  mesas  dancin'  in  the  sun,  and  the  grass 
wavin'  and  me  cows  grazin',  and  'way  off  like  in 
a  dream  them  blue  hills!  It's  sure  a  millionaire 
picture!  And  it  don't  cost  nothin'." 

"That's  the  best  of  it!"  said  Corliss  heartily. 
"We're  going  to  build  —  over  on  the  mesa  near 
the  fork .  You  remember  ? ' ' 

Sundown's  flush  was  inexplicable  to  Margery, 
but  Corliss  understood.  He  had  ridden  the  trail 
toward  the  fork  one  night.  .  .  .  But  that  was 
past,  atoned  for.  .  .  .  He  would  live  that  down. 

"It's  a  purty  view,  over  there,"  said  Sundown 
gently. 

And  the  two  men  felt  that  that  which  was  not 
forgotten  was  at  least  forgiven  —  would  never 
again  be  mentioned. 

"And  me  kitchen,"  said  Sundown,  leading  the 
way,  "is  Neeter's.  She  runs  it.  There's  more 
good  eats  comes  out  of  it  than  they  is  fancy  crock- 
ery in  it,  which  just  suits  me.  And  out  here"  — 
and  the  party  progressed  to  the  back  yard  —  "is 
me  new  corral  and  stable  and  chicken-coop.  I 

345 


Sundown  Slim 

made  all  them  improvements  meself,  durin'  the 
winter.  Reckon  you  saw  the  gasoline-engine 
what  does  the  pumpin'  for  the  tanks.  I  wanted 
to  have  a  windmill,  but  the  engine  works  faster. 
It's  kind  of  hot,  ma'am,  and  if  you'll  come  in  and 
set  down  I  reckon  me  wife's  got  her  hair  — " 

"Wah!  Wah!  Wah!"  came  in  a  crescendo 
from  the  bedroom. 

Sundown  straightened  his  shoulders.  "Gee 
Gosh,  he's  gone  and  give  it  away,  a'ready!" 

Corliss  and  his  wife  glanced  at  their  host  in- 
quisitively. 

"Me  latest  improvement,"  said  Sundown, 
bowing,  as  Anita,  a  plump  brown  baby  on  her 
arm,  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  stood  bash- 
fully looking  at  the  strangers. 

"And  me  wife,"  he  added. 

Corliss  bowed,  but  Margery  rushed  to  Anita 
and  held  out  her  arms.  "Oh,  let  me  take  him!" 
she  cried.  "What  big  brown  eyes!  Let  me  hold 
him!  I'll  be  awfully  careful!  Is  n't  he  sweet!" 

They  moved  to  the  living-room  where  Anita 
and  Margery  sat  side  by  side  on  the  couch  with 
the  baby  absorbing  all  their  attention. 

Sundown  stalked  about  the  room,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  vainly  endeavoring  to  appear  very 
mannish  and  unconcerned,  but  his  eye  roved 
unceasingly  to  the  baby.  He  was  the  longest  and 
most  upstanding  six-feet-four  of  proud  father 

346 


Improvements 

that  Margery  or  her  husband  had  ever  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting. 

"He's  got  Neeter's  eyes  —  and  —  and  her  — 
complexion,  but  he's  sure  got  me  style.  He 
measures  up  two-feet-six  by  the  yardstick  what 
we  got  with  buyin'  a  case  of  bakin'-soda,  and  he 
ain't  a  yearlin'  yet.  I  don't  just  recollec'  the 
day  but  I  reckon  Neeter  knows." 

"He's  great!"  exclaimed  Corliss.  "Isn't  he, 
Margery?" 

"He's  just  the  cutest  little  brown  baby!"  said 
Margery,  hugging  the  plump  little  body. 

"He  —  he  ain't  so  turruble  brown,"  asserted 
Sundown.  "'Course,  he's  tanned  up  some,  seein' 
we  keep  him  outside  lots.  I'm  kind  o'  tanned  up 
meself,  and  I  reckon  he  takes  after  me." 

"He  has  a  head  shaped  just  like  yours,"  said 
Margery,  anxious  to  please  the  proud  father. 

"Then,"  said  Sundown  solemnly,  "he's  goin' 
to  be  a  pote." 

Anita,  proud  of  her  offspring,  her  husband,  her 
neat  and  clean  home,  laughed  softly,  and  held 
out  her  arms  for  the  baby.  With  a  kick  and  a 
struggle  the  young  Sundown  wriggled  to  her 
arms  and  snuggled  against  her,  gravely  inspect- 
ing the  pink  roses  on  his  mother's  white  dress. 
They  were  new  to  him.  He  was  more  used  to 
blue  gingham.  The  roses  were  interesting. 

'Yes,  Billy's  me  latest  improvement,"  said 
347 


Sundown  Slim 

Sundown,  anxious  to  assert  himself  in  view  of  the 
presence  of  so  much  femininity  and  a  correspond- 
ingly seeming  lack  of  vital  interest  in  anything 
save  the  baby. 

"Billy!"  said  Corliss,  turning  from  where  he 
had  stood  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

"Uhuh!  We  named  him  Billy  after  you." 

Corliss  turned  again  to  the  window. 

Sundown  stepped  to  him,  misinterpreting  his 
silence.  He  put  his  hand  on  Corliss's  shoulder. 
"You  ain't  mad  'cause  we  called  him  that,  be 
you?" 

"Mad!  Say,  Sun," — and  Corliss  laughed, 
choked,  and  brushed  his  eyes.  "Sun,  I  don't  de- 
serve it." 

"Well,  seein'  what  I  been  through  since  I  was 
his  size,  I  reckon  I  don't  either.  But  he's  here, 
and  you  9re  here  and  your  wife  —  and  things  is 
fine !  The  sun  is  shinin'  and  the  jiggers  out  on  the 
mesa  is  chirkin'  and  to-morrow 's  goin'  to  be  a  fine 
day.  There's  nothin'  like  bankin'  on  to-morrow, 
'specially  if  you  are  doin'  the  best  you  kin  to- 
day." And  with  this  bit  of  philosophy,  Sundown, 
motioning  to  Corliss,  excused  himself  and  his 
companion  as  they  strode  to  the  doorway  and 
out  to  the  open.  There  they  talked  about  many 
things  having  to  do  with  themselves  and  others 
until  Margery,  hailing  them  from  the  door,  told 
them  that  dinner  was  waiting. 

348 


Improvements 

After  dinner  the  men  foregathered  in  the  shade 
of  an  acacia  and  smoked,  saying  little,  but  each 
thinking  of  the  future,  Sundown  in  his  peculiarly 
optimistic  and  half-melancholy  way,  and  Corliss 
with  mingled  feelings  of  hope  and  regret.  He  had 
endeavored  to  live  down  his  past  away  from 
home.  He  had  succeeded  in  a  measure:  had 
sought  and  found  work,  had  become  acquainted 
with  his  employer's  daughter,  told  her  frankly 
of  his  previous  manner  of  life,  and  found,  not  a 
little  to  his  astonishment,  that  she  had  faith  in 
him.  Then  he  wrote  to  his  brother,  asking  to 
come  back.  John  Corliss  was  more  than  glad  to 
realize  that  Will  had  straightened  up.  If  the 
younger  man  was  willing  to  reclaim  himself 
among  folk  who  knew  him  at  his  worst,  there 
must  be  something  to  him.  So  Corliss  had  asked 
his  brother  to  give  him  his  employer's  address; 
had  written  to  the  employer,  explaining  certain 
facts  regarding  Will's  share  in  the  Concho,  and 
also  asking  that  he  urge  Will  to  come  home.  Just 
here  Miss  Margery  had  something  to  say,  the  ul- 
timate result  of  which  was  a  more  definite  under- 
standing all  around.  If  Will  was  going  back  to 
Arizona,  Margery  was  also  going.  And  as  Margery 
was  a  young  woman  quietly  determined  to  have  her 
way  when  she  knew  that  it  was  right  to  do  so,  they 
were  married  the  day  before  Will  Corliss  was  to 
leave  for  Arizona .  This  was  to  be  their  honeymoon . 

349 


Sundown  Slim 

All  of  which  was  in  Will  Corliss's  mind  as  he 
lay  smoking  and  gazing  at  the  cloudless  sky.  It 
may  be  added  to  his  credit  that  he  had  not  re- 
turned because  of  the  money  that  was  his  when 
he  chose  to  claim  it.  Rather,  he  had  realized  — 
and  Margery  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his 
newer  outlook  —  that  so  long  as  he  stayed  away 
from  home  he  was  confessing  to  cowardice.  In- 
cidentally Margery,  being  utterly  feminine, 
wanted  to  see  Arizona  and  the  free  life  of  the 
range,  of  which  Corliss  had  told  her.  As  for  Nell 
Loring  .  .  .  Corliss  sighed. 

"  It  sure  is  hot,"  muttered  Sundown.  "  'Course, 
you'll  stay  over  and  light  out  in  the  mornin' 
cool.  You  and  me  can  sleep  in  the  front  room. 
'T  ain't  the  fust  time  we  rustled  for  a  roost.  And 
the  wimmen-folks  can  bunk  in  the  bedroom. 
Billy  he's  right  comf 'table  in  his  big  clothes- 
basket.  He's  a  sure  good  sleeper,  if  I  do  say 
it." 

"We  could  have  gone  on  through,"  said  Cor- 
liss, smiling.  "Of  course  we'd  have  been  late, 
but  Margery  likes  driving." 

"Well,  if  you  had  'a'  gone  through  —  and  I'd 
'a'  fetched  you  at  it  —  I  —  I  —  I  'd  'a'  changed 
Billy's  name  to  —  to  somethin'  else."  And  Sun- 
down frowned  ferociously. 

Corliss  laughed.  "But  we  didn't.  We're  here 
—  and  it 's  mighty  good  to  breathe  Arizona  air 

350 


Improvements 

again.  You  never  really  begin  to  love  Arizona 
till  you've  been  somewhere  else  for  a  while." 

"And  bein'  married  helps  some,  too,"  sug- 
gested Sundown. 

"Yes,  a  whole  lot.  Margery's  enthusiasm 
makes  me  see  beautiful  things  that  I'd  passed  a 
hundred  times  before  I  knew  her." 

"That 's  correc',' '  concurred  Sundown.  " Now, 
take  Gentle  Annie,  for  instance  — " 

"You  mean  Mrs.  —  er  —  Sundown?" 

"Nope!  Me  tame  cow.  'Annie'  is  American 
for  'Anita,'  so  I  called  her  that.  Now,  that  there 
Gentle  Annie's  just  a  regular  cow.  She  ain't 
purty  -  -  but  she  sure  gives  plenty  milk.  Neeter 
got  me  to  seein'  that  Gentle  Annie's  eyes  was 
purty  and  mournful-like  and  that  she  was  a  right 
handsome  cow.  If  your  wife 's  pettin'  and  f eedin' 
somethin',  and  callin'  it  them  there  smooth  Span- 
ish names,  a  fella 's  wise  to  do  the  same.  It  helps 
things  along." 

"Little  Billy,  for  instance,"  suggested  Corliss. 

"Leetle  Billy  is  right!  But  he  could  n't  help 
bein'  good-lookin',  I  guess.  He's  different.  Fust 
thing  your  wife  said  wuz  he  took  after  his  pa." 

"You  have  n't  changed  much,"  said  Corliss, 
smiling. 

"Me?  Mebby  not  —  outside;  but  say,  inside 
things  is  different.  I  got  feelin's  now  what  I 
never  knowed  I  had  before.  Why,  sometimes, 

351 


Sundown  Slim 

when  Neeter  is  rockin'  leetle  Bill,  and  singin', 
and  me  settin'  in  the  door,  towards  evenin',  and 
everything  fed  up  and  happy,  why,  do  you  know, 
I  feel  jest  like  cryin'.  Plumb  foolish,  ain't  it?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Sun." 

"Well,  you  will  some  day,"  asserted  Sundown, 
taking  him  literally.  "T  ain't  gettin'  married 
what  makes  a  man,  but  it's  a  dum'  poor  one  what 
don't  make  the  best  of  things  if  he  is  hitched  up 
to  a  good  girl.  Only  one  thing  —  it  sure  don't 
give  a  fella  time  to  write  much  po'try." 

Corliss  did  not  smile.  "You're  living  the 
poetry,"  he  said  with  simple  sincerity. 

"Which  is  correc',  Billy.  And  speakin'  of 
po'try,  I  reckon  I  got  to  go  feed  them  pigs. 
They's  gruntin'  somethin'  scand'lous  for  havin' 
comp'ny  to  our  house  —  and  anyhow,  they's 
like  to  wake  up  leetle  Bill." 

And  Sundown  departed  to  feed  his  pigs. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  MAN'S  COUNTRY 

"As  for  that,"  said  John  Corliss,  gazing  out 
across  the  mesa,  "Loring  and  I  shook  hands  — 
over  the  line  fence.  That's  settled." 

Sundown  had  just  dismounted.  He  stood 
holding  the  reins  of  his  old  saddle-horse  "Pill." 
He  had  ridden  to  the  Concho  to  get  his  monthly 
pay.  "And  pore  leetle  ole  Fernando  —  he's 
gone,"  said  Sundown.  "That's  jest  the  differ- 
ence between  one  fella  doin'  what  he  thinks  is 
right  and  a  bunch  of  fellas  shootin'  up  themselves. 
The  one  fella  gets  it  every  time.  The  bunch, 
bein'  so  many  of  'em,  gets  off.  Mebby  that's 
law,  but  it  ain't  fair." 

"  There 's  a  difference,  Sun.  A  fight  in  the  open 
and  downing  a  man  from  ambush  —  two  mighty 
different  things." 

"Well,  mebby.  But  I'm  feelin'  sad  for  that 
leetle  Fernando  jest  the  same.  —  That  Billy's 
new  house?" 

"Yes.  They  expect  to  get  settled  this  month." 

"Gee  Gosh!  I  been  so  busy  I  missed  a  bunch 
of  days.  Reckon  I  got  to  rustle  up  somethin'  for 
a  weddin'  present.  I  know,  be  Gosh !  I  '11  send 

353 


Sundown  Slim 

'em  me  picture.     Billy  was  kind  of  stuck  on 
it." 

"Good  idea,  Sun.  But' I  guess  you'll  miss  it 
yourself." 

"I  dunno.  Neeter  ain't  lookin'  at  it  as  much  as 
she  used  to.  She 's  busy  lookin'  after  leetle  Bill  — 
and  me.  'Course  I  can  get  another  one  took 
most  any  time." 

"Make  it  two  and  give  me  one,"  said  Corliss. 

"You  ain't  joshin'?" 

"No.     I'll  hang  it  in  the  office." 

"Then  she  gets  took  —  immediate." 

Chance,  who  stood  watching  the  two  men,  rose 
and  wagged  his  tail. 

Chance  never  failed  to  recognize  that  note  in 
his  master's  voice.  It  meant  that  his  master  was 
pleased,  enthusiastic,  happy,  and  Chance,  loyal 
companion,  found  his  happiness  in  that  of  his 
friends. 

"Well,"  said  Sundown,  "I  reckon  I  got  to  be 
joggin'.  Thanks  for  the  check." 

Corliss  waved  his  hand.  "I'll  step  over  to  the 
gate  with  you.  Thought  perhaps  you'd  stay  and 
see  Billy." 

"Nope.  I  ain't  feelin'  like  meetin'  folks  to- 
day. Don'  know  why.  Sky's  clear  and  fine,  but 
inside  I  feel  like  it  was  goin'  to  rain.  When  you 
comin'  down  to  see  leetle  Bill  and  Neeter?" 

" Pretty  soon.     Is  Billy  well?  " 
354 


A  Man's  Country 

"  Well !  Gee  Gosh !  If  you  could  hear  the  lang- 
widge  he  uses  when  Neeter  puts  him  to  bed  and 
he  don't  want  to  go !  Why,  yesterday  he  was  on 
the  floor  playin'  with  Chance  and  Chance  got 
tired  of  it  and  lays  down  to  snooze.  Billy  hitches 
along  up  to  Chance,  and  Bim!  he  punches  Chance 
on  the  nose.  Made  him  sneeze,  too!  Why,  that 
kid  ain't  afraid  of  nothin'  —  jest  like  his  pa.  I 
reckon  Billy  told  you  that  his  wife  said  that  leetle 
Billy  took  after  me,  eh?  Leave  it  to  a  woman  to 
see  them  things!" 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  you're  settled,  and 
making  a  go  of  it,  Sun." 

"So  be  I.  I  was  recollectin'  when  I  fust  come 
into  this  country  and  landed  at  that  water-hole. 
It  was  kind  of  a  joke  then,  but  it  ain't  no  joke 
now.  Funny  thing  —  that  bunch  of  punchers 
what  started  me  lookin'  for  that  there  hotel  that 
time  —  they  come  jinglin'  up  last  week.  Did  n't 
know  I  was  the  boss  till  one  of  'em  grins  after 
sizin'  me  up  and  says  —  er  —  well,  two  three 
words  what  kids  had  n't  ought  to  hear,  and  then, 
'It's  him,  boys!'  Then  I  steps  out  and  says,  'It 
is,  gents.  Come  right  in  and  have  dinner  and  it 
won't  cost  you  fellas  a  cent.  I  told  you  I  'd  feed 
you  up  good  when  I  got  me  hotel  to  runninY 
And  sure  enough,  in  they  come  and  we  fed  'em. 
They  was  goin'  to  the  Blue.  They  bunked  in  me 
hay  that  night.  Next  mornin'  they  acted  kind  of 

355 


Sundown  Slim 

queer,  sayin'  nothin'  except,  'So-long,'  when 
they  lit  out.  And  what  do  you  think !  They  went 
and  left  four  dollars  and  twenty-eight  cents  in 
the  sugar-bowl  —  and  a  piece  of  paper  with  it 
sayin',  'For  the  kid.'  We  never  found  it  out  till 
I  was  drinkin'  me  coffee  that  night  and  liked  to 
choked  to  death  on  a  nickel.  Guess  them  punch- 
ers ain't  so  bad." 

"No.  They  stopped  here  next  day.  Said 
they  'd  never  had  a  finer  feed  than  you  gave  'em." 

"Neeter  is  sure  some  cook.  Pretty  nigh's  good 
as  me.  Well,  so-long,  Jack.  I  —  I  —  kind  of 
wish  you  was  buildin'  a  new  house  yourself." 

Corliss,  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  neck  of 
Sundown's  horse,  smiled.  "Arizona's  a  man's 
country,  Sun." 

"She  sure  is!"  said  Sundown,  throwing  out  his 
chest.  "And  lemme  tell  you,  Jack,  it's  a  man's 
business  to  get  married  and  settle  down  —  and 
—  raise  more  of  'em.  'Specially  like  me  and  you 
and  Bud  and  Hi  —  only  Hi 's  gettin'  kind  of  old. 
She's  a  fine  country,  but  she  needs  improvin'. 
Sometimes  them  improvements  keeps  you  awake 
nights,  but  they're  worth  it!" 

"Yes,  I  believe  they're  worth  it,"  said  Corliss. 
"So-long,  Sun." 

"So-long,  Jack.  I  got  to  get  back  and  milk 
Gentle  Annie.  We're  switchin'  Billy  onto  the 
bottle,  and  he  don't  like  to  be  kep'  waitin'." 

356 


A  Man's  Country 

Chance,  following  Sundown,  trotted  behind  the 
horse  a  few  steps,  then  turned  and  ran  back  to 
Corliss.  He  nuzzled  the  rancher's  hand,  whined, 
and  leapt  away  to  follow  his  master. 


THE   END 


(Cfce  ftitoetfi&e 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


OVERLAND  RED 


By  HARRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 


"Overland  Red  is  a  sort  of  mixture  of  Owen 
Wister's  Virginian  and  David  Harum."  — 

Chicago  Evening  Post. 

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time  full  of  romantic  adventure."  — 

Chicago  Tribune. 

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West  in  the  days  when  a  steady  eye  and  a  six- 
shooter  were  first  aids  to  the  law,  *  Overland  Red/ 
should  be  a  widely  read  piece  of  fiction."  — 

Boston  Globe. 

"  A  pulsing,  blood-warming  romance  of  Califor- 
nia hills,  mines,  and  ranges  is  'Overland  Red.' 
.  .  .  A  book  that  should  be  sufficient  to  any 
author's  pride."  -  —  New  York  World. 

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THE  CLARION 


By  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 


The  story  of  an  American  city,  the  men  who  con- 
trolled it,  the  young  editor  who  attempted  to  reform 
it,  and  the  audacious  girl  who  helped  sway  its  desti- 
nies. 

"A  vivid  and  picturesque  story." — Boston  Tran- 
script. 

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Picayune. 

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gripping."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  One  of  the  most  interestingly  stirring  stories  of 
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THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS 
By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 

A  story  of  two  young  lovers  —  students  in  far-away 
Vienna  —  and  their  struggle  with  poverty  and  tempta- 
tion. Incidentally,  a  graphic  picture  of  life  in  the 
war-worn  city  of  the  Hapsburgs. 

From  Letters  to  the  Author: 

"  Fresh  and  clean  and  sweet  —  a  story  which  makes 
one  feel  the  better  for  having  read  it  and  wish  that  he 
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from  now,  and  will  still  be  helping  people  to  be  braver  and 
better."—  New  York. 

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THE  WITCH 


By  Mary  Johnston 


Miss  Johnston's  most  successful  historical  novel,  a 
romance  glowing  with  imagination,  adventure,  and 
surging  passions.  The  stormy  days  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth live  again  in  this  powerful  tale  of  the  "  witch  " 
and  her  lover. 

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that  Miss  Johnston  has  written."  —  New  York  Sun. 

"A  powerful,  realistic  tale."  —  New  York  World. 

"This  is  Mary  Johnston's  greatest  book."  —  Cleve- 
land Plain  Dealer. 

"  An  extraordinarily  graphic  picture  of  the  witch- 
craft delusion  in  England  in  the  age  that  followed 
Queen  Elizabeth's  death."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

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ston has  written  since  'To  Have  and  To  Hold/  "  — 
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THE  POET 


By  Meredith  Nicholson 


A  clever,  kindly  portrait  of  a  famous  living  poet, 
interwoven  with  a  charming  love  story. 

"  Not  since  Henry  Harland  told  us  the  story  of  the 
gentle  Cardinal  and  his  snuffbox,  have  we  had  any- 
thing as  idyllic  as  Meredith  Nicholson's  'The  Poet.'  " 
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and  common  sense,  reminds  one,  as  he  reaches  instinc- 
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ful ones  told  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich." — Washing- 
ton Star. 

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body knows  who  the  Poet  is,  but  if  they  want  to 
know  him  as  a  kind  of  Good  Samaritan  in  a  different 
way  than  they  know  him  in  his  verses,  they  should 
read  this  charming  idyll."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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LD  21-100m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 


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